


Ozymandias

by sirtwentyofhousegoodmen



Series: Ozymandias [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arcturus Black is wizard Tommy Lascelles, Arranged Marriage, Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), Dysfunctional AF, F/M, Family Feels, First War with Voldemort, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Lives, Sirius Black Lives, The Black Sheep Dog, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Walburga Black is victorian Lucille Bluth, but in a good way, like really these people are insane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen/pseuds/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen
Summary: The Black Family had seen its rapid decline over the course of five years. Now, with the apparent death of the last male heir, Arcturus Black presides over a dying dynasty, Walburga Black begins a slow descent into madness, and Sirius Black is jailed in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit.However, Arcturus isn't content on letting his ancient family name die out just yet, nor is he all that keen on handing his estate to the terribly déclassé Malfoys. So he, along with Walburga and a very reluctant Lucretia, begin a quixotic crusade to free their wayward heir from Azkaban.Meanwhile, in a more bucolic setting, Regulus Black lives in peaceful self-imposed exile after faking his death to protect his family from his betrayal. Until one night, he finds the long-forgotten mark on his forearm is burning once more.What happens when this highly damaged, emotionally constipated, extremely dysfunctional group of individuals meet under the roof of Grimmauld Place 16 years later in the midst of the second wizarding war?Chaos. Utter chaos.Set mainly during the events of OoTP, with a relatively lengthy prologue covering the years from 79-95.
Relationships: Arcturus Black III & Lucretia Black Prewett, Arcturus Black III & Phineas Black & Sirius Black II, Arcturus Black III & Regulus Black, Arcturus Black III & Sirius Black, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black & Walburga Black, Sirius Black & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black & Walburga Black
Series: Ozymandias [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058612
Comments: 136
Kudos: 464





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> soooo, I wrote the first draft for this a few months ago, and it was originally titled "Shame of My Flesh", but I abandoned it due to the fact that I didn't think I was ready to write something as long as this. However, quarantine, along with reading MarieKavanagh's incredible new fic Circinus, (she also helped proofread this, the woman is a literal saint) has led to me revisiting it over the past week. So, without further ado, feast your eyes on my insane BSD meets Penny dreadful meets arrested development AU.

_And on the pedestal these words appear:_   
_'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:_   
_Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'_   
_Nothing beside remains._   
_Round the decay_   
_Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare_   
_The lone and level sands stretch far away._   
_-Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias_

* * *

** PROLOGUE: ARCTURUS **

* * *

**June 2nd, 1979 **

“Almighty God, as you once called our brother Orion Arcturus Black into this life, so now you have called him into life everlasting. We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The priest’s dull prayer did nothing to snap Arcturus out of the fugue state he’d been in all morning. It was only the sound of the casket hitting the ground that finally called his attention. Orion’s casket. His son’s casket. 

He still couldn’t believe it. Orion had always been in good health, and the last time he’d seen him for their weekly luncheon at the Ministry he’d looked no different. Yet somehow he’d keeled over after a severe coughing fit not two days afterward. 

He could still remember the only three words he was capable of saying hours after being informed of the death, a fervent prayer.

_ Not my son. Not my son. Not my son._

But it was. He’d seen the body, and took the news with the same unfaltering stoicism he’d taken all the other losses with. He’d only ever wept once for a loss, Melania, and that was more than enough for one lifetime. 

The past few days had been a struggle, nonetheless. Similar to Melania’s death, he’d stopped eating and sleeping for the most part, and an air of melancholy followed him around like a shadow. No one knew this of course, and they would never know it. The family needed strong leadership above all else now, so he would suffer in silence, as he always did.

The sound of a sniffle to his right made him turn his head, only to see his grandson discreetly wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

He sighed in annoyance at the boy’s hysterics, pulling out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and leaning toward him, “Don’t let them see your tears.”

Regulus turned to him, eyes widened in a combination of surprise and apprehension, but he took the handkerchief wordlessly with a nod of his head. 

His eyes scanned the room to make sure no one else witnessed this display of emotion, but everyone’s attention was firmly on the casket. Tears were a weakness they couldn’t afford now. With Orion’s death, Regulus would soon need to step into his position as heir. 

Cygnus was handling the daily accounts for now. Lecherous little stump he was, he hadn’t done a terrible job of it, but the role would need to be filled by Regulus soon to ensure some sense of stability. He had no doubt that his grandson would dutifully fulfill the deeds asked of him, but it was his ability to do so that worried Arcturus. 

Regulus had always been a soft boy, similar to Orion when he was younger. However, he’d had the time to mold Orion from a stuttering milksop into a worthy successor. He would have no such luxury with Regulus, but it would be done nonetheless. It had to, in order to ensure their survival. 

He chanced a look at his surrounding family and snorted humorlessly at what he saw. The Noble and Most Ancient House Of Black, down to a few decrepit elders, a green boy, a Malfoy, and a Lestrange. 

Everything he’d worked for, all the time he’d spent ensuring that the legacy his ancestors built remained intact, all rested in the hands of a boy who’d completed his N.E.W.T.’s barely two weeks past. 

_God help us all._

* * *

** August 16th, 1979 **

“Almighty God, as you once called our brother Regulus Arcturus Black into this life, so now you have called him into life everlasting. We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

He felt nothing. That was different at least. The priest’s prayer seemed just as monotonous as last time, and the casket hit the ground with the same dull thud just as when they’d buried his father. The only difference was that this time the casket was empty. Regulus’s body was never found, and he was most likely rotting in a ditch somewhere. 

His Grandson. His _last_ grandson. Everything that his ancestors had built, everything that he’d spent his entire life working for, gone in the span of two months. It hadn’t even seemed real when Lucretia had flooed to Noire House in tears to inform him of it. 

And yet here he was, burying the last heir, the last _hope,_ of the House of Black. A thousand years, ended by a bit of youthful folly. 

And he knew just who to blame for that folly. Scanning the crowd of mourners, he found her. 

Bellatrix. 

A feeling he could only describe as utter contempt spread through him at the sight of her. They hadn’t even known that any of their lot were involved with the Dark Lord, he had taken care to ensure that the family remained neutral during the conflict. 

And yet, she had thrown that neutrality out the window. Another one of Cygnus’s offspring that failed in their family duty. 

She appeared to be saddened by the death, at least. She was clad in black like the rest of them, looking down at the casket with what appeared to be a cross between regret and disappointment. But it didn’t matter how she felt, it was her folly that had led them to this. It was she who guided Regulus to that cult of fanatics. 

He considered approaching her, but then a shrill cry broke through the crowd of mourners.

“LET GO OF ME!” Walburga shrieked, Lucretia by her side attempting to guide her out of the crowd.

He watched, scandalized, as his daughter-in-law wailed, squirming in vain to get out of Lucretia’s grasp, “THEY TOOK HIM FROM ME!”

The words were yelled at such a volume that a few crows perched atop a statue of some old Black ancestor flew away, scattering to the winds. 

Lucretia appeared to be fighting back tears, gripping Walburga’s arm so hard her knuckles had gone white, “Walburga, please, you need to—“

“—THE ONLY THING I NEED IS MY SON!”

Lucretia stifled a sob before trying to console her cousin, “I’m sorry dear, I know—“

“NO! YOU DON’T KNOW! YOU NEVER HAD A SON!”

Lucretia, to her credit, kept her composure, as well as the grip she had on Walburga’s arm, but Walburga managed to break out of it, grabbing onto her skirts and running off into a nearby grove. 

Lucretia moved to go after her, but Arcturus lifted up his wrinkled hand, “I’ll take care of it, dear. Don’t worry yourself.”

She furrowed her brow, “Papa, are you—“

“—Quite. Should I require your assistance, I’ll call for you.”

Lucretia appeared to hesitate, before nodding in acceptance.

He began walking over to the grove, tightening his grip on the cane. He didn’t know what possessed him to go after her in all honesty. Perhaps some sense of protectiveness he held for her as a father-in-law or a cousin, though he’d never felt much affection for her in either of those roles. 

Either way, Lucretia had been dealing with her hysterical cousin for the past week, and judging from the bags under her eyes, she needed some rest. 

Coming upon the grove, he saw her. She was leaning on the trunk of the great oak tree, breathing heavily and clutching her stomach, her breath coming out in short, visible puffs due to the frigid autumn air.

She let out a few strangled sobs, repeating her son’s name as if it was a prayer. 

Arcturus frowned. He considered leaving her be so she could mourn in peace, as she didn’t appear to be making a scene here. Better for her to lose her composure in some quiet grove where no one could hear, rather than in front of most of pureblood Britain.

But before long, she stopped speaking, her breathing grew shallow, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she collapsed onto the grass beneath her. 

His eyes widened, and he called out for his daughter as loud as he could, “LUCRETIA!”

* * *

** March 27th, 1980 **

For the first time in God knew how many years, Arcturus received an invitation to Grimmauld Place. Not directly from the mistress of the house, though that proved quite impossible as said mistress was little more than a vegetable at the moment. 

After Walburga had fainted at Regulus’s funeral, her health had deteriorated severely. At least, that’s what Lucretia wrote in her letters. He never got anything particularly specific on her condition, though he imagined it was just more of her womanish dramatics. 

Her lot hadn’t been easy, that much was true, but neither was Arcturus’s. He’d lost his wife, son, and both grandchildren in the span of nine years. Yet, here he was, working himself to the bone for the family. Or what was left of it, at the very least. 

Regulus’s death may have heralded the end of the name, but the blood would live on. Narcissa and her husband were bound to have more children, one of them would inherit Grimmauld Place and pass it on to their descendants. Normally it would have gone to Bellatrix, but Arcturus refused to give that fanatical little cretin and her mouth-breathing husband so much as a knut. 

Besides, she'd probably end up landing herself in Azkaban anyway, so in a way, he was planning ahead. 

He shuddered at the thought of passing on his ancient, venerable estate into the grubby hands of the Malfoys, but life had afforded him no other option. However hard a pill it was to swallow, the Black name was as good as dead, and he’d made his peace with that.

Although…if he could just convince Narcissa and Lucius to give their next son the Black name…

He shook his head, clearing it of the unwelcome thought. Blacks didn’t grovel or beg, especially to such déclassé peacocks as the Malfoys. 

Sighing, he lifted himself up from the sofa with the help of his cane. He walked over to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of floo powder, stepped in, and spoke: 

“Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.”

* * *

As he stepped into the drawing-room of Grimmauld Place, he dusted off the ash from his overcoat and was greeted by the tired faces of Pollux, Irma, Lucretia, and Narcissa. 

“Arcturus, thank you for coming,” Pollux greeted him. Upon shaking his hand, he noticed it was quite clammy, and did his best to contain a sneer of disgust.

“Of course,” Arcturus made a show of looking around the room, “And Bellatrix?”

“She sends her well wishes, but she is indisposed, uncle,” answered Narcissa.

Truth be told, he knew why Bellatrix wasn’t here. At Regulus’s wake, he’d made his feelings on her quite clear, as well as told her in no uncertain terms what would happen if she were to ever show her face around him again. 

Arcturus tipped his head in faux-understanding, “Give her my best.”

Narcissa nodded, “Of course.”

He turned his attention to Pollux, “How is she?”

His cousin clenched his jaw, “Her condition has worsened,” he took a breath, “The seizures come and go, she still refuses to eat or wash, and she hasn’t spoken a word to us in months.”

Arcturus raised his eyebrows in surprise. He’d known vaguely how Walburga had deteriorated following Regulus’s funeral through Lucretia’s correspondence, but he hadn’t known it was this grave.

“Seizures?” he asked, flabbergasted.

Lucretia nodded, lips set in a grim line, “The healer informed us of them last week. Apparently they’ve been happening for the better part of a month now.”

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs, in the willow bedroom,” replied Narcissa.

Arcturus nodded, “Let’s see her then,” he turned to his daughter, “Lucretia, my girl, I’m afraid I’ll need your help getting up the steps.”

Lucretia smiled wanly, “Of course, Papa.”

She took his arm and led him up by the steps, the others following close behind. He chanced a few looks at his daughter’s face—Lucretia had always been a jovial girl, born with a smile that never seemed to falter—Now, however, there was no hint of that cheerful disposition. She looked as if she was marching up to another funeral. 

If everything he’d heard about Walburga was true, in a way, he supposed she was. 

Arriving at the door to the willow bedroom, Lucretia rapped on it gently. It opened to reveal a young healer, face set in a frown, “I’ve given her a potion for the seizures, she should remain stable for some time. The elf left some food on the nightstand, though she hasn’t touched it.”

Irma waved the young healer away, and he stepped aside to let them in. When he turned to his right, his eyes widened in shock as he looked upon his daughter-in-law for the first time in six months. 

Her hair was unwashed and fell over her face like a black curtain; Her eyes had red circles beneath them; Her skin was sallow and unhealthily pale; She had thinned so much that it looked as if her nightclothes were wearing _her_ , rather than the inverse.

Kreacher was by her bedside, attempting in vain to get his mistress to eat.

"Leave us, Kreacher," Irma told the elf, imperiously.

The elf did his best to contain a scowl and looked to hesitate for a moment, but nonetheless bowed in deference and grumpily stomped out of the room, muttering under his breath curmudgeonly.

Irma cautiously sidled up to her daughter’s bedside, sitting down onto a chair, brushing imaginary dust off her skirts. 

“Walburga, dear, it’s me.”

Walburga’s face remained expressionless.

Irma picked up the plate of food with her dainty hands, bringing it to her daughter’s mouth, whose response was only to turn her head to the other side.

Irma sighed, “You must eat, dear.”

After a few seconds of silence, Irma relented, putting the plate back onto the nightstand. 

“They don’t think it’s epilepsy anymore, did I tell you that?”

No response came, yet Irma, in typical Irma fashion, continued.

“Healer Darry doesn’t know what to think—” she scoffed, “—ridiculous little man. They _think_ it may be something in your brain.”

Irma cleared her throat uncomfortably, “What else, er, that girl you used to despise, Marianne Greengrass, was it? Yes, that was it! I hear her husband was caught in a most compromising position with their badminton coach.”

Walburga stayed silent. 

To Arcturus’s continued shock, Irma appeared nervous and unsure of what to say next, “Shall we not talk of Marianne?” She looked down at her lap and twiddled her thumbs, “I don’t know,” she whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t know.”

“They—“ Irma’s voice cracked, “They don’t know what’s wrong with you, dear.”

There was still no response.

“The seizures,” she muttered tearfully, “The seizures are so horrid."

She cleared her throat, blinking away the tears, “Our old healer, Healer Massey, he retired a few years ago, but he’s spoken about an institution in Germany. They say that the wizards there excel in matters of the mind, that perhaps sending you there would help you. You always did like Germany, didn’t you? Perhaps a change of scenery would do you good.”

Walburga’s face remained vacant, and Irma was about to continue when she slowly turned her head and spoke for the first time in months.

“A madhouse.”

Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, to be expected when one hasn’t spoken for six months, but her speech was clear.

“I am not mad, mother.”

Irma looked too shocked for words that her daughter had responded to her at all, and couldn’t seem to find anything to say, until Walburga ended the conversation with one final sentence.

“It’s over,” she said emotionlessly, “Just let me die.”

She turned away and curled into herself under the covers like a dying spider.

Irma’s face crumpled and her body began to be wracked by sobs. Pollux rushed to her side and lead her out of the room, whispering soothing words, though there was a quiver in his voice.

Lucretia put a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob, “I can’t do this,” she said, brushing past Arcturus to leave the room. 

He turned back to his daughter-in-law, staring at her in disbelief at what she'd allowed herself to become. This was decidedly unlike Orion's outspoken, volcanic-tempered wife, to simply give up and wait to die. Then again, she was a woman, and Arcturus never did claim to understand the ways of the fairer sex.

Shaking his head, he left the room quietly, leaving the last mistress of Grimmauld Place alone with her demons.

* * *

** June 2nd, 1980 **

“No, Lycoris, I will not be increasing your allowance just so you can take that gigolo of yours on a trip to France.”

His sister gasped, “He’s not a gigolo! He loves me, he says he wants to marry me and give me children—“

“—A smidge late for that, isn’t it?”

Lycoris’s jaw dropped, “Why must you be so cruel, Archie?”

He sighed, praying for a sliver of patience to deal with his foolish hen of a sister, “It would be far crueler of me to let someone swindle you out of your gold and not do anything about it.”

“Archie—“

“—This conversation is over, Lycoris. Until you stop being such a profligate spendthrift I’m cutting your allowance in half. Good day.”

He cut off the connection to the floo in his sister’s house before she could retaliate with some nonsense or other. 

Sighing, he reached for the brandy on the coffee table, hoping to God it would dull the awful migraine setting in.

He poured himself two fingers, leaned back into the sofa, and tried to come up with something to do other than merely lounging around for the rest of the day.

He had planned to take his dogs hunting around the grounds of Noire House today, but Antlia and Lyra appeared quite content to laze in his study for the remainder of the day. 

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, “Lazy bitches.”

That earned him a whine of indignation from the both of them. 

His brooding was cut short by the arrival of his house-elf with a tray of what looked suspiciously like food.

“Will master take lunch today?” the elf asked.

He sighed in exasperation, “No, Pernie, I am not hungry at the moment.”

The elf looked conflicted, before gathering its bravery and speaking again, “Master has barely eaten this week, Master must eat something.”

He raised one eyebrow at her boldness. House-elves seldom talked back, particularly this one, who he'd known since he was eight. He didn’t know whether to beat her for her impertinence or commend her for her loyalty.

“Leave me,” he said, in a tone that brokered no argument.

The elf’s eyes widened in fear before muttering _‘Of course master,’_ and turning back around.

Taking pity on the miserable creature, he relented, “Leave the tray on my desk, I’ll take lunch in a short while.”

The elf grinned victoriously and set down the tray on the desk to his right, before bowing so low her nose brushed against the carpet, and scampering out of the study.

Truthfully, the past week he’d had little to no appetite, nor much sleep. The last few months had seen his condition gradually improving since Regulus and Orion’s deaths, but this week had seen him slip right back into his old habits.

Most likely Lycoris’s theatrics hadn’t helped much. One would think a woman her age would know better than to gallivant around Europe arm-in-arm with a 22-year-old lover called ‘Gelato’. 

_I should’ve married her off when I had the chance,_ he thought to himself.

And he had many chances, truth be told. Lycoris was a daughter of the most powerful wizarding family in Britain, and he had got many _extremely_ generous offers for her hand. 

Yet, he’d respected her will when she told him she didn’t wish to marry, that she preferred her independence, and he left it at that. 

What did he have to show for that decision? A deluded old biddy messing around with a scam artist old enough to be her grandson.

Rubbing his temple in exasperation, he decided that perhaps three fingers of brandy were more appropriate at this moment.

As he moved to pour himself more, a light tapping on the window interrupted him. He turned around to see Lucretia’s owl, Busybody, holding a letter in her beak. 

Furrowing his brow in confusion, he stood up and walked toward the window, opening it and letting the creature in. 

He took the letter from its beak, opening it whilst absently waving his wand to levitate a strip of bacon from his lunch to give to the bird. 

“Here you are,” the owl nipped greedily at the treat, almost pecking Arcturus’s hand in the process. 

“Off you go, _Busybody,_ ” he snorted at the name Lucretia had given her bird. He’d found it a bit tasteless at first, though the humor in it became clearer through the years. 

_His daughter looked at the tawny owl perched in the birdcage he was holding with wide eyes, “Is that mine, Papa?”_

_He smiled widely at her astonishment, a rare sight, “Yes, dear, all yours. I figured you’d need something to write to your mother and I about Hogwarts.”_

_She opened the birdcage, letting the owl climb onto her arm, laughing as it nipped at her finger playfully._

_“I love her, Papa, thank you!”_

_He chuckled, “An owl needs a name, you know.”_

_She scrunched up her face in thought, a habit she’d had since birth that never failed to amuse him, then she smiled triumphantly before proclaiming, “Busybody!”_

_He looked at her in disapproval, “Really, Lucretia?”_

_“What?” she blinked innocently, “Don’t you get it? She’ll be delivering everything about my personal life back and forth. Quite the gossip isn't she?" she stroked the owl's head._

_He scowled at her impertinence, “I do understand the joke, though isn’t it a bit tasteless?”_

_“Very well, I could just call her Lycoris, as it's more tasteful,” She had the temerity to smirk, "And the joke still stands."_

_“Careful, my girl,” he said, though his lips twitched visibly._

Opening up the letter, he skimmed it only to find that it contained vague updates about Walburga’s condition, as well as the typical invitation to visit her and Ignatius whenever possible that she always ended her letters with. 

He knew she only put that in there as a courtesy, as she would rather walk on broken glass than endure a visit from him. However, he strangely found that he had the urge to take her up on the offer. He wouldn’t be doing much today besides lazing about, and he hadn’t seen his daughter since his visit to Grimmauld Place. 

Yes, a visit would do them both good. 

His mind made up, he grabbed his coat from the rack, grabbed a pinch of floo powder from the mantle, and spoke: “Number 40, Savile Row.”

* * *

Stepping into the sitting room of the Prewetts, he dusted off his coat and looked up from the floor to be met with the faces of a gobsmacked Lucretia, and a confused young man sitting beside her. When he took notice of the young man's red hair and blue eyes, along with his tatty robes, it took everything he had not to scowl.

How wonderful, _a Weasley_.

“Papa?” she breathed.

“Lucretia.”

She opened and closed her mouth for a few moments before clearing her throat, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He smiled, “I believe you extended a standing invitation to visit you and Ignatius whenever possible, I decided to take you up on it.”

She appeared to curse herself for writing that bit of the letter before turning to her red-headed companion, “Oh, how rude of me,” she shook her head, “Arthur, this is my father, Arcturus Black. Father, this is Arthur Weasley, my nephew-in-law.”

It took all the strength he had to keep up his smile when forced to shake hands with Cedrella’s whelp, though even then he didn’t think it reached his eyes, “Cedrella’s boy, are you not?”

The Weasley looked shocked at the reference to his mother, most likely because it was Arcturus himself who’d burned his cousin off the tree for her poor marriage choice, but nodded sheepishly, “Yes, sir.”

“Give her my regards,” he said, discreetly wiping his hand on his coat. 

“Of course, sir,” he turned to Lucretia, “Well then, best be off, Mrs. Prewett, give Ignatius my thanks.”

She smiled benevolently, “Of course, dear. Do make sure the twins receive my gift, I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of it."  
“Absolutely,” He grinned, before nodding to Arcturus, turning back to the fireplace, and disappearing in a flash of green fire to some godforsaken place called ‘The Burrow.’

She watched the Weasley go with a fond look on her face, before turning back to Arcturus, “Well, do sit down, Papa.”

He walked over to the chair the Weasley had sat in, pulled out his wand and gave it a discreet _‘Scourgify’._ Lucretia may have liked the boy, but he was still a Weasley, and he didn’t particularly trust the cleanliness of whatever ‘The Burrow’ was. 

Lucretia saw this and rolled her eyes, but said nothing, instead summoning a china tea set with a flick of her wand.

She moved to make his tea for him, though he lifted up a hand to stop her. 

“Allow me.”

Lucretia blinked, “Wh-Are you sure?”

Arcturus smirked, “Of course,” he reached for the large teapot embossed with the Prewett family crest, “When you were a girl, I used to fix your tea for you at breakfast, don’t you remember?”

Lucretia smiled, a melancholy glint in her eyes, “Yes, I do.”

“Splash of milk and two sugars, if I remember correctly?” 

She nodded, “Right as always, Papa.”

He poured the milk carefully so as not to overdo it. Lucretia had always been a picky child, and as the house-elf had supposedly never quite got her tea the way she liked it, it came down to him to make it for her at breakfast. He suspected she only accused the elf of getting it wrong so that he would have to fix it for her, though he didn’t mind.

“So,” Arcturus said, handing her the teacup, “Where is your husband? Why wasn’t he here to receive me?” he asked.

“At work, I’m afraid,” her smile was almost laughably false. “It’s truly a shame that you missed him, I’m sure he would have loved to see you.”

He let out a deprecating snort at the obvious falsehood, “That’s a lie and we both know it, Lucretia.” 

She sighed, resting her chin in her hands and closing her eyes in annoyance, “What do you want from me, Papa?”

“Nothing,” he held his hands up in a gesture of innocence, “I simply wanted to visit my only daughter, is that such a crime?”

She looked at him warily as if anticipating some trap, then dropped her tense demeanor slightly, “No, I suppose not,” she leaned back into her chair, “How have you been?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Same as always,” a lie.

Lucretia gave him a disbelieving look, “Are you certain? You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well, or eating for that matter.”

“I don’t recall needing a nursemaid,” he grumbled, “I’m quite well. How about you?” 

She steepled her fingers and took a deep breath, “Managing. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year already.”

“A year?” he furrowed his brow in confusion, “Since what?”

She looked at him with wide eyes, and spoke her next words very slowly, a hint of umbrage in her tone. “Orion’s funeral. It was a year ago today.”

The realization washed over him in alternating waves of pain and numbness, and it took him a few moments to gather his words, “Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat, “Yes, of course.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as Lucretia gave him an expectant look before he swiftly changed the subject.

“Yes, well. I’ve been dealing with the matters of the estate for the past few months. Tedious business, that. Especially having to pass it all off to the Malfoys, though it isn’t as if we have many options on that front.”

His daughter looked at him, incredulous, “What? The estate? You want to talk about the estate?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Yes. Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

Her mouth twisted in what he could only describe as disgust, “Yes there’s a reason. Of course, there’s a reason. We buried your _son, my brother,_ a year ago today, and you wish to talk about the estate?"

"There's no need to discuss any of that," he replied, acidly. "Weeping over his death won't do anything to bring him back, and there are more important matters to attend to at the moment."

He wanted nothing more than for her to just let the subject go, but Lucretia's expression was mulish in her indignation, and it was with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he realized she had no intention of dropping this.

"More important matt-" she scoffed humorlessly, "Of course. Of course, why should I have expected any different?"

"Any different with what?" he asked, bemusedly.

"You! You," Lucretia let out a groan in frustration, "You always do this! You did it with Mama, you did it with Uncle Regulus, and now you're doing it with Orion. Pretending as if things are going normally, as if nothing has changed, when everything has changed! You're just too blind to see it!"

The anger that a simple attempt to change the subject elicited from her completely blindsided him, though there was no planet in which he would stand a daughter of his speaking to him that way. 

“Mind your tone with me, Lucretia Black,” he cautioned.

She stood up from the table so abruptly that her chair flew back, “My tone?! My brother is dead! His younger son is dead! What the blazes does my tone matter?”

“Lucretia!” 

"I thought that you came here to speak with me, actually speak with me, about your son," she looked near tears now, "I thought, that on this day, of all days, you might have actually come to grieve! That I could have spoken with my father, instead of the head of the Black Family!"

"They are one and the same, you of all people ought to know that!" he shouted at her, a rare occurrence.

She laughed, a hollow, humorless sound, "Oh, believe me, Father, I know only too well!"

He stood up from the table, a task that took considerable effort, due to his weak leg along with the shock and anger that was coursing through him at this outburst. Lucretia had always been an insolent girl, but she had never, _never,_ in all her fifty-five years, spoken to him like this . 

He took a deep breath, attempting to defuse the situation, "Lucretia-"

“-And the Malfoys?!" She barreled on, unconcerned with his growing fury. "You plan to pass everything we have to those pompous social-climbers when you have a living grandson remaining?!”

The room grew deathly quiet at the reference to Orion's wayward whelp, and the silence was only punctuated by Lucretia’s furious heavy breathing. 

"I have no grandsons remaining," he replied, scathingly. "The Malfoys may not be the heirs that I would have preferred, but they are an old, respectable family that will do far more to carry on our legacy than that dimwitted muggle-loving fool you call my 'grandson'. This is about legacy, Lucretia, not sentimentality, and it's high time you began to prioritize the former rather than the latter." 

Lucretia looked at him, her grey eyes that had once lit up whenever he turned his attention to her now dripping with such a hatred that it almost made him recoil.

"Legacy?" she scoffed, "Tell me, father _,_ what did basing your life on legacy ever get you but a dead son, and a dying name?"

At that moment, he felt as if she'd run a sword through him. He desperately looked in her eyes for any trace of regret, but all he found was a loathing that he'd never thought to see. 

Were Arcturus a weaker man, he would have shown a sign of hurt at the cruel taunt. 

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Instead, he glared daggers at his daughter, before responding in as measured of a tone as he could manage, “I did not come here to be scolded, I came for a pleasant visit with my daughter. As I see that you are incapable of managing that, I will take my leave.”

He stood up and began walking over to the fireplace before another tirade stopped him in his tracks.

“He loved you! Did you know that? He spent his entire life trying to meet your impossible expectations, and you repaid him with nothing but dismissal and disdain! He died thinking that he was a disappointment, that he would never be good enough in your eyes!”

Arcturus stood stock-still, his back to his now weeping daughter, letting her barrage of words wash over him, and ignoring the painful aching in his chest.

He moved to grab the floo powder, and as he wordlessly tossed it into the hearth, she asked one final question.

“Did you care for him at all? For me? Regulus? Or was it all about your precious legacy?”

He wouldn’t even dignify that with a response.

* * *

As he stepped out of the fireplace, he quickly realized that he hadn’t gone to Noire House. 

He ran his hand over his face in frustration, though instead of heading back into the hearth and flooing home, he decided that a moment to collect himself would serve to clear his head first, so he began walking aimlessly around the vaguely familiar ornate room where he’d landed until he found a door that led to the outside.

Truth be told, he couldn’t remember what words he’d uttered as soon as he’d stepped into the fireplace, all he’d known was that he wanted to leave, and quickly. Lucretia’s tirade had hurt far more than he would care to admit. Did she actually believe that he didn’t care for them? Everything he’d done in his life was to ensure their survival, their prosperity. He’d worked his fingers to the bone so they would inherit a strong estate, and a legacy they could be proud of. 

What more did she want from him to prove his devotion to them, to prostrate himself before an effigy of his children?

She wanted affection? A pat on the back for merely existing? His father was that kind of man, never one to let his children leave his presence without an embrace, and he'd almost destroyed their reputation with his debauchery.

He wondered what his father would think were he here to see what had become of this family. He was a kind, quiet man, an academic, yet the death of his wife had broken him beyond repair and he turned to the bottle. Arcturus had thought him weak for abandoning his duties so easily, yet in the end, who had truly been the weak one?

Sirius II, for all his drunkenness, had left behind a relatively stable estate, along with two suitable heirs. After Arcturus’s death, there would be no one to continue their line, and the estate would be handed off to a lesser family. 

Perhaps Father had the right of it when he’d elected to drink his troubles away after all.

_“Father?” he knocked on the door._

_He heard a brief shuffle behind the closed door of his father’s study, before a slurred ‘You may enter,’ gave him permission to open it._

_When he came in, Father looked just as if he’d awoken from a very long nap, though the tipped over decanter of brandy on his desk told him otherwise._

_He took a seat, “You wished to see me?”_

_His father looked at him confusedly, as if he hadn’t sent the elf up to Arcturus’s room less than two minutes ago to summon him, until his eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, of course, of course. I need—“ he yawned, “Some assistance with the accounts, my boy. I’m afraid I’ll be indisposed for the evening, you see.”_

_Arcturus ground his teeth at this, “And why exactly will you be indisposed, father?”_

_He lazily waved a hand in dismissal, “Oh just to reminisce with a few old friends over drinks tonight at the Marcellus, nothing for you to concern yourself with.”_

_Arcturus dug his nails into his hand, willing himself not to explode at the drunken fool._

_Uncle Cygnus had been the one handling the accounts most of the time ever since mother’s death, though ever since his graduation from Hogwarts last year, Arcturus had taken charge, and he’d seen the amounts father dedicated to his nightly excursions. The Marcellus was a particular favorite of his when it came to that activity._

_Before he could object, Father stood up from his desk, wobbling his way to Arcturus’s seat._

_“Oh, my boy, my darling boy,” he slurred, patting his face with his hands, “You look s-so much like your lovely mother, you know? I am—“ he gulped, “—sssoo happy that we raised such a gallant young man. Sssshe would be v-very proud of you,” he drunkenly jabbed a finger into Arcturus’s chest to emphasize each word._

_All he could do was nod silently, and watch as father made his way to the liquor cart to pour himself another glass._

He wondered what advice his father would give to him were he here. Perhaps some pie-eyed nonsense about how he couldn't control everything, that he worked too much, that he should ‘loosen up’, and ‘enjoy life’. 

And it _would_ have been complete nonsense, as what life was there left to enjoy? He’d worked to ensure the family’s prosperity, and now there was barely a family to speak of. He couldn’t show his face at any respectable social event without a thousand simpering fools descending on him like vultures to offer empty apologies and words of pity. 

There was absolutely nothing—

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he gazed upon the place that his aimless traipse had led him. 

It was the family graveyard, he realized. The weathered statue of old Ophiuchus was dead and center, and there was a sea of gravestones surrounding him, all bearing the family crest. Aside from the gravestones of a few notable ancestors like Canopus or Equuleus, most were so old and forgotten that they appeared to be reclaimed by the earth, weeds growing out of the cracks in the stone, mounds of grass blocking out the names. 

However, the gravestone he stood in front of had not been reclaimed by the earth, nor had it been forgotten. The mound of earth in front of it appeared relatively fresh, and it was with a painful clench in his chest that he took in the words freshly carved into it:

_Orion Arcturus Black_

_1929-1979_

_Beloved father, husband, and son._

_‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.’_

He glared down at the grave, silently willing it to grow a pair of gray eyes, a head of brown hair, and a shy disposition just so he could scream at it. For what, he didn’t know. Dying before him? Leaving behind a son that was fresh out of the nursery to take his place? Not disclosing the fact that he had an illness so that they could have started a treatment?

Instead of transforming into his son, however, the grave remained stubbornly fixed to the ground, a dull block of chiseled stone that was almost a monument to Arcturus’s failures; In Lucretia's eyes, at least.

He chanced a look around the silent graveyard to ensure no stray mourners would hear what came next, and with a shrug of his shoulders, began to speak.

“So,” he said, “One year.”

He sighed, “Things haven’t been going quite well, in case you weren’t aware.” 

“Of course,” he scoffed, “Perhaps you are aware. If everything those priests tell us is correct, that is. Personally, I was never the most devout man. The nuns who were in charge of my religious education when I was a boy told me it was because I had a problem obeying any authority that wasn't my own. Completely preposterous, of course," he sniffed haughtily, "Though that's neither here nor there.”

The silence this elicited was almost comforting, truth be told. Ironically enough, it was almost exactly how conversations with Orion went when he was living.

“I saw Lucretia today,” he said, clearing his throat, “She was impertinent as ever, of course. Saying some outrageous nonsense about how I didn’t care for you and how you were under the impression that I viewed you as a disappointment.”

Now the silence grew uncomfortable, as this was the point where Orion would dismiss his sister’s ramblings as fueled by nothing but a glass too much of sherry.

“I didn’t, you know. View you as a disappointment. Truth be told, in many ways I respected you. You were never as forceful as I wanted you to be, and you let that wife of yours overstep far too often, but I suppose you made up for it in other ways.”

“Your mother,” he swallowed, “You were very much like her, you know. You were docile, kindhearted. I suppose I saw that as a weakness when you were alive. Now, however—“ he pursed his lips, taking a moment to gather his words, lest he embarrass himself, “—I was wrong. That wasn’t weak. _You_ weren’t weak. I only wish—“ he averted his eyes from the gravestone and gripped the hilt of his cane until his knuckles went white, “—I only wish I could have told you that when you were still here.”

He brought a shaking hand to the inner pocket in his overcoat, pulling out his wand and conjuring a garland of bluebells and clematises. 

He nodded, satisfied with his work, before giving one final look down at Orion’s resting place, and bringing down a wrinkled hand onto the cold stone, “Farewell, my son."

* * *

** November 2, 1981 **

_SIRIUS BLACK APPREHENDED FOR MURDER OF TWELVE MUGGLES, ONE WIZARD_

The headline of the newest prophet was not the biggest shock of the day for Arcturus. No, that honor had gone to the picture of his grandson plastered on the front page screaming bloody murder, eyes widened in rage. 

He flung the wretched paper onto the desk carelessly. Any affection he’d ever had for his grandson had gone out the window when he did. Whatever happened to that ungrateful blood-traitor was of no concern to him.

And yet, he found it exceedingly hard to believe that Orion’s rogue whelp had the backbone to commit such a crime. He’d certainly inherited Walburga’s explosive temper, but to kill twelve muggles in broad daylight was not exactly in character with the rebellious Gryffindor who spent his summers at Grimmauld Place blasting that God-awful muggle music and loudly rejecting any notions of blood purity. 

No…There was something more to this, something that had gone unseen. It was simply too absurd to believe that his muggle-loving grandson who gave up a vast fortune out of a desire to repudiate their beliefs would suddenly become a turncoat for the Dark Lord. 

He wouldn’t look into it, however. Sirius had already been as good as dead for the past five years, whether he was in Azkaban or running free in London made no difference in the matter. 

As he went back to finishing the accounts, he tried to ignore how Lucretia’s words from their last meeting echoed in his head.

_'You plan to pass everything we have to those pompous social-climbers when you have a living grandson remaining?!’_

* * *

** February 17th, 1982 **

The morning was just like any other. Arcturus had woken after four hours of fitful rest, rising before the dawn. He’d treated himself to a full english for the first time in months, though he could only stomach to eat about half of it. Afterward, when the sun rose, he’d taken Antlia and Lyra for a short walk around the gardens of Noire House whilst he enjoyed his morning tea. 

All in all, an ordinary morning. 

That was, until he heard a tapping on his study window, only to see an owl waiting with a letter in its beak, an owl he never thought he’d see again.

Busybody.

He distractedly reached for his cane, making his way to the window as quick as he could, never taking his eyes off his daughter’s owl for fear it would fly away.

He opened the window, letting the creature in, and quickly taking the letter out of its beak. 

He ripped open the envelope, disregarding Busybody until he heard an indignant hoot.

“There’s nothing for you here,” he said, glaring at the bird, “Go.”

The owl ruffled its feathers, affronted, but promptly flew off.

Arcturus huffed, turning his attention back to his daughter’s neat hand.

_Dearest Father,_

_I have written to inform you that Walburga has returned from Germany, and her condition has improved significantly. The seizures have stopped, and she appears to be in better health altogether, though she doesn’t speak very often._

_However, in the few times I have managed to speak with her, she made it clear how upset Sirius’s arrest has made her, even more so when she found out he was never granted a trial. I know that we did not end our last meeting on the best of terms, but should you have any affection left in your heart for me, I would request that you check with your contacts in the Ministry to see if there is anything to be done for his case. A visit with Walburga to speak with her on the matter would be greatly appreciated as well. She does not speak very often, but I am certain that she will want to do so with you on this matter. Be patient with her, please._

_Should you wish to visit her, beware that Uncle Pollux and Aunt Irma have enlisted the services of one of the healers to continue her treatment here, a man called Kreizler. He will most likely be at the house when you go. He’s a brilliant healer, though he has a perceptiveness that can border on intolerable. Take care not to curse him should you visit._

_With Regards, Your loving daughter,_

_Lucretia Prewett_

He couldn’t help but notice, with a mixture of humor and disappointment, the fact that she had left out her typical invitation to visit her and Ignatius. Truly it was no great surprise, as the last time they’d had any contact with each other was at that disastrous visit two years ago. Walburga and her parents had left for Germany shortly after for her treatment.

As far as he was aware, Pollux and Irma had elected to remain there with some distant relatives of hers. Bellatrix’s arrest had shamed the lot of them, though none more so than that branch of the family. Cygnus and Druella had left shortly after as well, abandoning their townhouse in Mayfair for the French Riviera. 

Narcissa and her husband had been the only ones from that branch that stayed in England, even after Lucius was arrested for his associations with the Dark Lord, though he’d been able to plead innocent on account of the Imperius. Completely preposterous of course, but the Malfoys had the best legal defense money could buy, so he went free.

Arcturus sighed to himself, grabbing the decanter of brandy from the liquor cart and pouring himself a glass. Contrary to Lucretia’s beliefs, he _had_ attempted to get Sirius a trial. At first, he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but a chance to restore the Black name was too much to resist. Besides, he couldn’t tolerate such an insult as to have a grandson of his rot in Azkaban without so much as a trial. 

Though, the quest had proven fruitless. The Black name had become irreparably damaged because of Bellatrix and Regulus’s antics, and his influence had waned considerably. Burke had no desire to fight the Ministry, refusing to take the case unless a trial was ensured, citing his reputation as the reason. And that wouldn't happen as Crouch had refused to even consider a trial when he confronted him in the Atrium, saying that the case was closed and Sirius’s guilt was obvious.

He could’ve spoken with Lucius to see if his contacts could do anything, but he knew that the unctuous wretch already had his hungry eyes set on the estate, so it would be ridiculous to ask him if he would assist in the release of a man who would place his son second in line for the inheritance. 

Furthermore, He hadn’t seen his daughter-in-law in nigh on two years, nor did he have any desire to. He could barely stand her when she was sane, why on earth should her fragile mental state make things different? 

However, if Walburga was willing to speak with him, _truly_ speak with him, it might be worth the trouble.

Whatever else Walburga was, she was persistent. Even he could admit, however begrudgingly, that she would make a formidable ally in this endeavor, if he could get her to stop hiding away from the world like a child. It was also his duty as the Patriarch to survey the situation at Grimmauld Place every so often, and he hadn’t entered her halls in two years, so either way, he was more than overdue for a visit. Perhaps Lucretia would even be there. 

His mind made up, he moved to change into something more suitable. It would be most unbecoming of him to turn up in his ancestral home wearing a cardigan.

* * *

As he stepped out of the drawing-room fireplace for the first time in two years, he found himself gaping in horror at what had become of the grandest room in Grimmauld Place.

The curtains were drawn, though the tiniest light peeked out from under them, and with that, he could see everything. Everything appeared to be caked in several layers of dust. The lavishly patterned wallpaper was peeling off the walls in some places. Spiderwebs dotted the room every which way, and some of the chairs had been tipped over haphazardly. The only thing that looked to be in good condition was the tapestry, still draped proudly over the walls on the left-hand side of the room. 

Arcturus, still in a state of shock, made his way to the grand piano, which had not been spared from the state of disrepair the rest of the room found itself in. There was a layer of dust over the lid, the keys were slightly yellowed, and when he pressed down on a few, they were very out of tune. 

Oddly enough, the state of the piano was what made him most uncomfortable in this room. His brother Regulus used to love to play. Every once in awhile, he would drink to the point where he’d even sing some bawdy song with Lycoris.

_“Come on, Reggie,” Lycoris whinged, her speech slightly slurred. “I’ve got the sheet music right here, don’t be such a schoolmarm.”_

_Regulus looked down at the sheet music, and while he widened his eyes at some of the no doubt suggestive content, he drunkenly shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the bench._

_Lycoris cleared her throat dramatically as Regulus played the introduction, ‘We’re all alone, no chaperone can get our number, the world’s in slumber, Let’s misbehave!’ She turned to Regulus, ‘Come on, Reggie, sing with me, stop being such a bore!’_

_Regulus scrunched up his nose, but relented, singing the next line, ‘There’s something wild about you child that’s so contagious, Let’s be outrageous, Let’s misbehave!’_

_“Archie!” she yelled._

_“No,” a vaguely amused Arcturus responded from the chaise, “And would you mind keeping it down? Lucretia is two years old, it’s well past her curfew, and I don’t fancy dealing with her if your abysmal singing wakes her.”_

_She waved a hand in dismissal, singing the next line just as out of tune as the last, ‘When Adam won eve’s hand, he wouldn’t stand for teasin’, he didn’t care about those apples out of season!’_

_Regulus, reluctant as he was to even play the song in the first place , tipsily belted out the next line, ‘They say the spring means just one thing to little lovebirds, we’re not above birds, Let’s misbehave!’_

A stranger’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Do you play?”

Arcturus spun around in an instant, training his wand on the source of the voice.

The shadowy figure raised its hands, “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The man had an accent, sounding vaguely German, and Arcturus had trouble putting the pieces together in his head until recalling the German healer Lucretia mentioned in her missive.

He sighed, stowing his wand back into his jacket pocket, “You must be Healer Kreizler,” he held out his hand for the healer to shake.

The mysterious healer stepped out from the shadows. He was a relatively short man, dressed elegantly in black robes, a cravat of silk around his neck. His brown hair was parted down the middle, whilst his beard was trimmed neatly around the edges, giving it a pointed appearance. 

A scoundrel if he'd ever seen one.

He smiled enigmatically, “Please, call me Laszlo.”

Arcturus shook his hand gruffly, “Arcturus Black.”

“Very nice to meet you, Arcturus.”

He sneered at the german’s overfamiliarity, “Please, call me Mr. Black.”

The man looked as if he was trying to hold in a laugh, though relented, “Of course, Mr. Black, I presume you’re here to see your daughter?”

“Daughter-in-law,” he took care to correct the man. He’d be damned if anyone thought that harpy had come from him.

The german furrowed his brow at this, though the smile remained in place, “Yes, of course. Well, I met Mrs. Prewett a few days ago when she came to visit, a very charming woman, I presume that she is your _actual_ daughter?”

He felt slightly disappointed at the discovery that Lucretia wasn’t here, but didn’t let it show, “Yes.”

The healer nodded, “Well, come along, we can discuss Mrs. Black’s condition in my study,” he turned around and began walking.

Arcturus glared at the man’s back. The absolute _nerve_ to call it _his_ study, as if this hadn’t been Arcturus’s home for the better part of 60 years.

Nevertheless, he followed along, content to let any browbeating wait until they were in the confines of a cleaner room. 

As he walked along the halls of his old home, he was glad to notice that everything else appeared relatively clean. The banister was a tad dusty, but at least it wasn’t caked in several layers of it like most of the drawing-room. 

Reaching the top of the landing, he gazed upon the portrait of Ophiuchus Black, who greeted him with a smirk and a nod of his head, to which he scowled. He’d never taken a liking to that inscrutable french cad, especially after discovering Lucretia gazing at him longingly when she was a young girl. 

As they reached the study, the healer unlocked the door with a series of incantations, infuriating Arcturus even further, as he'd even had the gall to set enchantments in his family home. 

The door unlocked with a click, and Arcturus was about to take a seat in front of the desk before the healer called to him, “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer if you sat there,” he pointed to the chaise at the end of the room, “I find it makes things more comfortable that way.”

Arcturus was certain the man could see how furious he was, but the smug fritz’s placid smile never wavered. 

Begrudgingly, he moved over to the chaise and sat down with a groan, whilst the healer took a seat opposite him in a chair, folding his hands.

He was about to speak when the healer butted in, “Your cane, forgive me, but I find it quite strange.”

He snorted, “Why? I have a bad leg, it’s nothing particularly shocking at my age.”

“Isn’t it?” the healer asked, “Most wizards tend not to have many physical ailments, even in old age. Potions clear them up more often than not.”

Arcturus ground his teeth, “Yes, well, potions didn’t work very well for this. They tried everything. It happens.”

“When did it start?”

Arcturus grabbed the hilt of his cane until his knuckles went white and glared at the healer with such vehement anger his smile finally wavered.

“Forgive me, I have the mind of a healer, I simply wanted to know out of curiosity.”

Arcturus grit his teeth, but nonetheless answered the man’s foolish question, “Around 10 years ago.”

“Was this before or after your wife passed?”

He felt certain he wanted nothing more than to throttle the prying fritz, but kept his calm, “After,” he gritted out. 

The man nodded as if he had been proven right about something, and then spoke a word Arcturus had never heard before as if it answered everything, “Psychosomatic.” 

He blinked, “What?”

“Psychosomatic,” the man repeated, “You see, sometimes, when an individual undergoes a traumatic or emotionally stressful event, the aggravation they feel can manifest into physical pain in the body. That’s why the potions didn’t solve anything. They target the leg, rather than the mind.”

Arcturus laughed, a short bitter sound, “That’s got to be the most outrageous tripe I’ve ever heard, utter codswallop.”

The man had the temerity to smile condescendingly, “I can see why you would think that. My field of healing is relatively new, in the wizarding world at least, but it’s shown quite a bit of promise.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, Pollux and Irma were actually gullible and desperate enough to hire this snake, “Your field of healing is frankly ridiculous, and the only reason it exists at all is because of imbeciles like my cousin and his wife.”

The fritz leaned back into his chair, assessing him in silence for what felt like an eternity, until he finally spoke, “Absent mother, died when you were young, I’d wager, so there was no maternal figure in your development.”

Arcturus blinked, how did he—

“—Overly emotional father,” the man went on, “Children tend to overcompensate for what they perceive to be their parent’s flaws.”

He snorted, slightly relieved that he’d made a mistake, “My father was a drunk, not overly emotional.” 

The healer shrugged as if it was no consequence, “I find they are one and the same. Overall, you strike me as someone who had a great deal of responsibility hoisted on you at a young age, along with a strong sense of duty instilled from birth. Because of this, along with your father’s vices, you feel that showing ‘weakness’ in front of those who see you as a leader, like your children, is a fatal flaw that could spell disaster. As a result, you bottle up all of your emotions. Every time a loss impacts you, you don’t grieve in public, nor in private most of the time. Instead, you push down your feelings and throw yourself into your work.”

Arcturus felt himself gaping at the man in disbelief. 

“This, however,” he continued, absently toying with a quill, “Is unhealthy. Emotions are powerful things, and when pushed down, they can turn to poison, weakening our appetites, disrupting our sleep habits,” he pointedly eyed Arcturus’s cane, “giving us limps.”

It took Arcturus far more time than he would’ve liked for him to collect himself, “Pure guesswork,” he muttered uncomfortably.

The man tipped his head, “You could call it that, though I’d like to think of my work as being a tad more informed. Most of my ‘guesswork’ is simply from observing your mannerisms, the way you speak, as well as how your daughter spoke of you.”

Arcturus cleared his throat, ignoring the reference to Lucretia, “Back to the subject of your work, I believe we are here to talk about my daughter-in-law's condition, not my mannerisms.”

The healer clapped his hands together, “Yes, of course! Well, overall, she’s improved tremendously under my care. She is eating regularly, as well as keeping up with her hygiene, and her seizures have stopped completely.”

“What caused them in the first place?”

“I’d say it was trauma, as she doesn’t have epilepsy or any other ailment from what I can tell. Sometimes seizures can be brought about due to heavy emotional stress or depression, things that are to be expected after losing one’s husband and son in the span of two months.”

Arcturus nodded, though he was still skeptical, “And is she speaking?”

The healer grimaced, “I’m afraid she isn't, for the most part—“

“—Well, that’s a first—“

“—But,” the healer continued, ignoring his interruption, “It’s not that she can’t speak, she simply doesn’t have the desire to, at least with me. I've heard her some conversing a bit with Mrs. Prewett, but not much else. These things take time.”

“Time and money,” he groused, rolling his eyes at how anyone could be so foolish enough to fall for this little man’s schemes.

“Yes,” the healer agreed, “Time and money. Now,” he stood up, “Would you like to see her?”

Arcturus pursed his lips, “As that’s what I came to do, then yes, I would.”

Both men stood up, though Arcturus stopped the man before he could open the door, “I think I know my way to the willow bedroom quite well, so your assistance will not be required.”

The healer blinked, but nodded, “As you wish, sir.”

“One more thing,” Arcturus added as an afterthought, “How long will you be staying here?”

“In England? Indefinitely, as I would hope to open a practice and continue my work here.”

“I mean in this house.”

“Ah, that. Well, as long as it takes for Mrs. Black to make a full recov—“

“—You have one week, then you will rent yourself a room at the Leaky Cauldron and some office space in Knockturn Alley,” he said, slamming the door in the man’s face.

* * *

As he opened the door to the willow bedroom, he was greeted with a blast of sunshine from the window that temporarily blinded him, though as soon as his sight adjusted to the light, he saw her.

She was still wearing her nightclothes: a black silk robe that looked far too large for a woman of her stature, and a pair of blue silk pajamas underneath. He suspected that the robe was Orion's, and upon further inspection, he was proven right as he was able to glimpse the embroidered initials, _O.A.B._

However, unlike the last time he’d visited, her hair was washed, though still worn down, and her skin had a healthy tone to it. There was still a slight redness under her eyes, but all in all, she looked nothing like the skeleton he’d encountered two years ago in this room.

At her side, loyal as always, was Kreacher, who appeared to be folding the sheets on her bed. 

So that was why the wretched elf hadn’t greeted him when he arrived.

“Walburga,” he greeted. 

She turned his head to look at him without offering any greeting.

“I received a missive from Lucretia, and I’m prepared to speak with you with regards to Sirius _,_ ” he turned to Kreacher, "Leave us, elf."

The decrepit little rat had the audacity to turn to his mistress as if asking for approval instead of obeying his direct order.

Walburga gave him a distrustful look, then turned to the elf, giving it a silent nod. 

With obvious reluctance, the wretched creature left his mistress's side and made his way out.  He moved aside to let the little mongrel through and promptly slammed the door in his face when he remained in the doorway. 

“So,” he attempted a smile, “How have you been?” 

She continued glaring at him in silence, then promptly turned her attention back to the window.

“I see your manners are still the same as always,” he moved to sit, “How refreshing.”

In the reflection on the window, he saw her sneer, but she said nothing. 

“Your ‘healer’,” he spat out the word, “If you can call that charlatan a healer, has told me you’ve made some progress. I’m pleased to see it’s true. You looked as if you were on death’s door when I saw you last.”

She kept up her silence, playing with the hem of her sleeve and acting as if he wasn’t even in the room. He’d only been in the room for two minutes and it was already starting to grate on him. 

“However, he’s informed me that you have yet to speak,” he examined his nails for any nonexistent dirt, “Truthfully, I almost laughed in his face, as in the nigh on sixty years I’ve known you, you never were able to keep that mouth of yours closed.”

She kept playing with the hem of her sleeve, though he could see a tenseness in her jaw that hadn’t been there before.

He scoffed, “So, what is this, truly? A show? Are we meant to feel sorry for you? Poor Walburga, lost her husband and both sons, locked up in a madhouse, and now she can’t speak.”

In the reflection of the window, he could see a fury building in her eyes, and judging from how white her knuckles were from gripping the robe, it was was only a matter of time before it finally boiled over. Good, this was beginning to get tiring. 

He’d tried to obey Lucretia’s plea for patience, but this impudent little chit always found a way to make him lose his temper. If he was going to get any sort of assistance from her through this ordeal with Sirius, he would need her to behave like an adult, not some spoiled child.

“I’ve walked on corpses my whole life, girl. My mother; taken by spattergroit; My father, taken by the bottle; Regulus, taken by fading fever; Melania, dragon fever; Orion, dead from the same illness. Blood, every step of the way. Yet, did I give anyone the silent treatment like some insolent half-blood? No, I swallowed my pain and moved on, because that’s what Blacks do.”

He expected her to scream, to lash out in hysteria, instead she remained silent for a moment, before replying in a hoarse voice,“Have you imagined for one moment what this has been for me?”

He was surprised by the calmness in her voice, though he didn’t let it show on his face.

“First, my firstborn disgraces my name and everything I ever gave to him, then my husband dies in front of me, then, when I thought I couldn’t possibly suffer anymore, my last boy is taken from me.” 

Her eyes were on him now, blazing with fury, and her lips trembled as she stood up from the alcove.

“You think you’ve suffered?” she muttered furiously, “You think you know blood?” she paced madly around the room until finally standing in front of him, grey eyes piercing into his, “You think you’ve walked on corpses? Spread them from here to the horizon, and I have walked further! You weak, foul, vainglorious man, how DARE you speak to me of blood?! How DARE you presume to speak to me of death?!”

Arcturus clenched his jaw in annoyance at the churlish manner in which she spoke to him, but he also felt a wave of relief wash over him. This was a Walburga he was used to dealing with, volatile and boorish, not the mewling child he was met with five minutes ago.

She moved to storm out of the room, but before she could reach for the door, he grabbed her by the arm.

Walburga opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off before she could.

“Then, should you wish to finally stop cowering behind these walls, let us come to an understanding,” Arcturus said, turning his head to look at her, “And get Sirius out of Azkaban.”

She shook off his grip, "Tell me why I should trust a word that comes out of your mouth? You're the one who told Orion not to go back for him! Why should you want to help him now?"

Arcturus blinked in surprise at the ridiculous claim, before letting out a deprecating huff. "What sort of potions does that German charlatan have you on that you would say such nonsense?" 

Walburga gawked at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Nonsense? What the devil are you—"

"—Do you honestly believe that I would be so foolish as to let my grandson shame the family in such a way without at least attempting to bring him to heel? Especially after the humiliation Andromeda had brought us barely five years past?" 

She opened and closed her mouth several times, words having failed her. It took him a few moments, but once Arcturus realized why exactly she appeared so shocked he almost laughed. Orion truly hadn't told her who was really the reason why Sirius never came home. 

Even in death, the boy found a way to aggravate him.

He shook his head in exasperation. "I wanted Orion to bring the boy back. In fact, I ordered him to. Not for any sentimental reasons, mind you, as I never particularly cared for him," That earned him a sharp glare, though he pressed on. "But as a matter of dignity. Orion, however, refused me."

Refused was an understatement. He'd spent the better part of an afternoon screaming at his son to bring back Sirius, yet Orion remained a steadfast bulwark in his decision, refusing to be cowed. He'd been both extremely proud of his son for finally standing his ground, yet also extremely frustrated at him for refusing to obey his orders. 

Walburga took the news with about as much grace as one would expect from her. 

"That's a lie!" she shrieked, finger pointed accusingly in his direction. "Orion NEVER crossed you! He wouldn't have dared!"

"I can assure you he did. And tell me, have you ever known me for a liar? Why exactly would I lie about this?"

"Because—Because—" her eyes appeared to moved back and forth in each direction as if she was searching her mind for an argument, though she ultimately deflated. 

"Why would he not want him back?" Her voice sounded small and defeated now, a far cry from the shrieking she leveled at him not a minute past.

"It doesn't matter, he's dead," Arcturus replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Though if it's any consolation, he refused to disinherit the boy up until his dying day, even after I had been commanding him to for the past three years."

She appeared slightly mollified by this, though a frown still marred her face when she turned to him. "Why do you want to help him?"

"Legacy," he answered. "Sirius may be an odious runt, but odious runt or not, he is a Black, and the last chance for this family's survival. I am not particularly eager on passing all that my ancestors worked for to Lucius Malfoy," he spat out the name. "I admit—I didn't always think of it this way, but I suppose his incarceration has made me reevaluate my thoughts on the matter."

Walburga nodded in acceptance, though she probed deeper, "Is that truly all this is for you?"

At that moment, he heard his daughter's voice in his head.

_“Did you care for him at all? For me? Regulus? Or was it all about your precious legacy?”_

He sighed, "I may have never particularly cared for your son, but I did care for mine. And even miserable old bastards like me have debts of affection to repay."

She assessed him for a short moment, until finally tipping her head in acknowledgment. 

"I'm under no impressions that you care for me," he spoke, his tone almost bored, "And I would hope you are of the same mind with regard to my feelings for you."

She nodded brusquely, a shadow of a sneer on her face.

"However, If we are going to go through with this plan, truly go through with it, we cannot do it alone. We will need to work together and pool our resources and our energy, as we are effectively standing against the highest governing body in wizarding Britain."

"I agree," she replied simply.

"Do you?" he questioned, sharply. "Do you really? If you follow this path, you will need to face the world, instead of hiding behind the walls of Grimmauld Place. It may take months, perhaps years to even get him a trial, if Crouch is ardent enough in his refusal. Are you truly prepared for that? Or am I wasting my time?"

There was now a grim determination in the set of her jaw, "There's nothing left for me anymore," she crossed her arms and lifted her chin, resolutely. "I will follow this path, even if takes me to the darkest pit of hell."

 _Darkest pit of hell,_ Arcturus thought, amusedly. Pollux's branch of the family truly were far too dramatic for their own good. 

He nodded once, "Very well. Let's discuss this further in the library, if you would be so willing?"

"Of course." She moved to leave the room, but he cleared his throat to stop her. She may have got away with it for the past two years, but he would not conduct any further conversation with her dressed like _that_.

"Would you mind reconsidering your attire, madam?" He looked pointedly at her pajamas, "We are here to discuss an extremely sensitive legal matter, not to have a pillow fight and braid each other's hair."

She grit her teeth and crossed her arms, looking every inch a pouting child denied their favorite sweet. "Very well, wait for me in the library whilst I change into something more appropriate for the occasion."

"Of course." Arcturus exited the bedroom, hearing the door slamming behind him as he left. 

He groaned in displeasure at the adolescent behavior. 

This was not going to be a pleasant endeavor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1983-1991  
> Walburga Black meets with Barty Crouch, continues her crusade to free her son with Arcturus, faces a ghost from her past, and writes quite a few letters.

**PROLOGUE: WALBURGA**

* * *

** November 8th, 1983 **

As another bitingly cold gust of wind blew forth from the sea, Walburga pulled her shawl closer to her chest, stray hairs blowing loosely with the salty breeze. She’d enjoyed walking along this stretch of shoreline ever since she was a young girl, and though the weather these past few days had been utterly miserable, she powered through. 

These daily excursions were some of the only moments of leisure in her life as of late, and she’d be damned if she allowed something as inconsequential as the climate to keep her from enjoying them.

Walking along the beach, she listened as the relaxing rhythm of the continuous lapping waves carried on in the background. There was a certain tranquility in the solitude that she lived in here, unlike the solitude at Grimmauld Place. 

Far too many memories haunted her there, ghosts that she could see in every crack in the crown molding, every notch on the banister. She could still hear her screams of despair every time she passed by the study where Orion had died, and she could still feel the pieces of fabric underneath her fingernails from the desperate clawing each time she walked by the tapestry room.

It was good that she’d left. Had she stayed there, it would have swallowed her whole.

This place was not without its ghosts, however. She used to walk with Regulus on this very beach whenever the family visited her mother and father. She remembered how he would stray from her side most times, running towards the shore to pick up seashells on the sand to gift to her. 

She sighed to herself, wrapping her arms around her middle. Her poor, sweet son. What had become of him? How was he taken from her so soon? Why had he died? Did he suffer? Did they torture hi—

—No. No, she couldn’t allow herself to think of such thoughts. If she did, no amount of potions that Kreizler pulled out of his bag would do anything to stop her from descending back into madness. And she couldn’t afford such a thing, not with the matter of Sirius Orion hanging over her head. 

She felt a pang of resentment at the thought of her wayward elder son—how he'd abandoned his duties to go frolic in the sun with his ill-bred group of friends—though she tamped it down as soon as it made itself known.

She couldn't afford to think like that right now. There would be plenty of time to scream at him once he came home.

Tomorrow would be the day they finally got their meeting with Crouch, after over a year of being passed off to Ministry official after Ministry official as if they were a half-emptied bottle. No longer could the man avoid them now, nor could he avoid the trial that was coming. It was every wizard’s right to have a trial, and the fact that he had imprisoned a wizard from such a prominent family as Sirius Orion without one was enough to cost him his career.

Perhaps he would beg at her feet, beg to be kept in his current position, to be spared the humiliation of resignation. She would enjoy that, watching that wretched little worm writhing on the ground for mercy. 

She would give him none. 

As she looked over the horizon, she saw a smattering of billowing, dark clouds looming up ahead. She frowned in disappointment, she’d hoped to continue walking for another half-hour or so, but even she wasn’t stubborn enough to brave those heavy rains. 

Grabbing her skirts, she made her way back to the house.

A storm was coming. 

* * *

Through a stroke of sheer luck, she was able to make it back inside the house the moment the first drops of rain started to fall. 

She walked down the main corridor, stopping at the door to her father’s old study and opening it. 

Removing her shawl, Walburga flung it distractedly onto the chaise and moved to the rosewood davenport situated in on the right-hand side of the study.

Ever since last year, she’d been living at her childhood home, Neptune House. Mother and father appeared to have no plans of returning from Germany anytime soon, so she figured it wouldn’t do to just leave the house empty. 

Besides, she always did like it here far better than Grimmauld Place. Neptune House was much larger, situated on an isolated plot of land directly on the sea, contained far less of those irritating portraits, and didn’t have any of the bad memories she associated with Grimmauld Place. She’d lost Sirius, Orion, and Regulus there. She’d never lost anybody here except for Alph—

Walburga shook off the unwelcome thought. She hadn’t wasted a second of her time thinking of _him_ for the past six years, she wouldn’t start now. 

Shaking her head, she reached for the pile of correspondence on the davenport, thumbing through each message.

_My Dearest Aunt,_

_I hope you are well. I have written to inform you that mother has returned from the French Riviera for a short while to see Draco, and I know how she has missed you so. If you can, please make time on the afternoon of the 12th for a spot of tea with us, as we all have quite a bit of catching up to do._

_Warm regards, Your loving niece,_

_Narcissa Malfoy_

Walburga let out a disbelieving laugh. Druella? Missed her so? She wondered how much of an effort it took Narcissa not to burst out laughing whilst writing the invitation. 

Either way, Walburga had no intention of going. She would sooner turn her wand on herself rather than subject herself to an afternoon of meaningless chatter with those empty-headed hens. 

That is, if she _had_ a wand. Kreizler was currently holding it hostage to ensure she returned for her sessions with him. Though, he wouldn’t have even had it if Walburga hadn’t lost control for that brief moment at the institution. 

It was completely preposterous. Just because she may have accidentally cursed an orderly for trying to get her to drink a potion meant that all of a sudden she was deemed ‘unstable’, and ‘a danger to herself and others.’

Thumbing through the remainder of the correspondence, she found nothing but other invitations to events she had no plans of attending, promptly tossing them into the fireplace: The Greengrass twins’ baptism, Marjorie Yaxley’s baby shower, Calathium Parkinson’s wedding to that dimwitted Selwyn girl. 

At the end of the pile of dreadful invitations, she finally found something that she didn’t mean to use as kindling. 

_Walburga,_

_The appointment with Crouch tomorrow is at a quarter till ten, you will meet me at the Atrium at no later than half-past nine._

_Don’t be tardy._

_Arcturus Black_

Walburga glared at the words written in Arcturus’s rough hand. She could practically hear the condescension in his words. Working with her father-in-law this past year had not softened her one bit to the man, and judging by the fact that every time they met to discuss Sirius’s case he looked as if he’d tasted something very unpleasant, the feeling was mutual. 

Walburga’s feelings for him aside, Arcturus had made good on his promise, spending the past year and a half working tirelessly to ensure Sirius Orion’s trial took place. His influence had diminished significantly due to the fall from grace they’d suffered in the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s defeat, but Arcturus was like Veritaserum; no matter how hard you tried to resist it, eventually, it took control. 

Tossing the letter carelessly back onto the davenport, Walburga sat down onto the bench beside it—taking care to position herself in a proper posture. She reached for the hippogriff feather quill tucked into the ink-pot beside her, and began writing.

_My Dearest Sirius,_

* * *

** November 9th, 1983 **

The grand atrium at the Ministry of Magic was just as dreadful as she’d remembered it. The sounds of wizards and witches bustling about echoed through the cavernous structure, all of them rusted gears turning in a broken machine. 

She had never come here often, as her place was always at Number Twelve, but the few times she had had not endeared her to the cold, soulless atmosphere. 

_Speaking of cold and soulless_ , she thought to herself as she caught sight of Arcturus. He looked the picture of haughty indifference; dressed in only the finest set of black robes, gnarled hands wrapped around the steel hilt of his hickory cane—not one graying black hair out of place. 

To most, he would have seemed bored or annoyed, but Walburga had known this man her entire life—she could see the signs: The expectant tapping of his cane, bushy mustache twitching slightly upward, heels slightly lifting off the ground, eyes impatiently wandering around the room.

Arcturus Black looked positively giddy.

No wonder—she was in a rather good mood as well. If today went as expected, Sirius would be given a trial, then promptly freed, Crouch would resign in disgrace, and their family name would be saved.

When he caught sight of her, to her shock, he smiled widely. It was a quick, fleeting thing, and it looked more smug than anything, but it shocked her all the same. 

“Walburga,” he greeted, back to his usual gruff persona.

“Arcturus.”

“I presume you received my missive.”

She blinked, “Of course.”

He pulled out his sterling pocket watch from the inside pocket of his frock coat and donned his pince-nez—carefully reading the time, “It’s 9:37, I told you to meet me no later than half-past nine.”

Walburga clenched her jaw, willing herself not to lose her temper with the stubborn old ox. As per usual, he had to find something to complain about and spoil the excitement. 

“Apologies,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice demure. “I overslept.”

He rolled his eyes, “I will not allow myself to be embarrassed because you decided that a few minutes of extra sleep were more important than obeying my orders.”

Walburga scoffed, indignantly. “I embarrassed you? Please, if anyone here has embarrassed you, it’s yourself, bouncing on your heels in plain view of the entire Ministry like some over-excited schoolgirl.”

His eyes turned murderous then, and just as he was about to issue a sharp retort, a piece of parchment came whizzing past them, unfurling itself to display the words:

_The Office of The Head of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_…_

_Mr. Crouch will see you now._

_…_

He turned to her, sneer still present on his face, “Well, then, shall we?”

She nodded, begrudgingly taking his extended arm.

As they walked along, he tightened his grip. "Behave yourself, girl."

Walburga turned to him to issue a sharp retort—the _gall_ to ask her to behave herself like she was some unruly child—but the words died in her throat at his glare of warning, and she contented herself with a stubborn scowl instead. 

* * *

The first thought that went through her head as the door to his office opened was that Bartemius Crouch looked nothing as she remembered. His once black hair had gone almost as silver as Arcturus’s pocket watch. His face appeared far more gaunt, giving him a rather skeletal appearance. His hands were so withered and wrinkled it looked as if he’d literally worked them to the bone. Overall, it appeared as if someone had drained all the life out of him.

With what happened to his son, and shortly after his wife, it was no surprise.

She was still in disbelief at the fact that his son had done such a monstrous thing. She had met Barty Jr. many times over the years, and the boy had always seemed to be of the good sort, mild-mannered and polite, not the sort to join up with the Dark Lord, especially considering his father’s standing. 

Then again, she’d thought the same of Regulus. And however wild Bellatrix had been as a girl, she’d never expected her niece to be capable of such barbarity either.

They stopped a few feet before the desk, waiting to be received by their host. 

“Mrs. Black, Arcturus,” Crouch greeted, eyes still focused on the stack of papers in front of him. 

“Bartemius,” Arcturus tipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Please, have a seat,” Crouch said, still refusing to look up. He raised his wand, and in one swift motion, pulled out both the chairs in front of his desk.

She could hear the sound of Arcturus’s jaw clicking in annoyance at the rude behavior, but he nonetheless walked to his seat and sat down, and after a moment of glaring at Crouch for his pitiful manners, Walburga did the same.

Crouch, to their continued annoyance, was still completely focused on the papers in front of him, signing off on some ministry work or other, only stopping on occasion to noisily dip his eagle-feather quill back into the ink-pot.

“So, to what do I owe the visit?”

“I believe you know what it is we’re here for, Bartemius,” Arcturus said, his tone betraying none of the impatience she knew he must be feeling. She had to give some credit to the old man—he had made hiding his emotions an art form.

Crouch still refused to look up from his paper, and he stayed quiet for a short while, before replying in an innocent voice, “Oh? I’m afraid I know no such thing, Arcturus.”

Arcturus rolled his eyes at the impertinence, before finally snapping in dissatisfaction, “Unless you've been both blind and deaf for the past year, I am sure you do. Judging by the fact that you're scribbling some nonsense with your quill in some poor attempt to look important instead of receiving us properly, I'm incline to believe you're neither.”

Crouch, for the first time in the years she’d known him, let out a slight chuckle, “Ah, there’s that sharp tongue you Blacks are so famous for.” 

Finally, the man put his quill back into the ink-pot, taking care not to leave one barb on the quill askew. 

He steepled his fingers, leaning back into his chair and assessing them for a moment before pressing a button on the left-hand side of his desk. 

After a few seconds, a young woman in robes of green came inside, rolling a trolley of tea and scones.

She served Crouch first, he took his with no sugar and only the slightest bit of milk, then turned to Arcturus, “How do you take your tea, sir?”

“No milk, no sugar,” he answered, gruffly. 

She nodded and poured his tea, handing him the cup carefully.

She then turned to Walburga with a placid smile, “How do you take your tea, madam?”

Walburga pursed her lips before replying uncomfortably, “A good deal of milk and a good deal of sugar.”

Walburga had been self-conscious about the manner in which she took her tea ever since childhood, mostly due to her mother’s haranguing. Every time she so much as laid eyes on a teapot she could still hear the old harridan’s voice clear as day.

_“For Salazar’s sake girl! If you put any more milk and sugar into that teacup it’ll turn to caramel!”_

The serving girl nodded and began pouring the milk in, before putting in only two sugars, much to Walburga’s annoyance.

“Three sugars, not two,” she grit out, discomfited. 

The girl looked cowed at the tone, but nodded in deference, quickly putting in the extra sugar and handing Walburga the tea.

Crouch, who had been watching all this with a vague degree of amusement, turned to the skittish girl, “Thank you, Emma, you may leave us.”

The girl looked only too happy to put distance between herself and Walburga, nodding and practically riding her infernal trolley out of the office. 

Crouch turned back to them, putting down his cup of tea with a slight _clink_ , “Now, what is the matter that you wished to discuss with me?”

Walburga, who had been silent up to this moment, could hold her tongue no longer at Crouch’s deliberate attempts to ignore the obvious reason why they visited, “Stop acting the fool, Crouch. You know as well as Arcturus and myself that we are here to discuss Sirius and your frankly abhorrent mishandling of his case!”

Walburga took no small amount of pleasure at the way in which Crouch’s smug smile slid right off his face at the rebuke. His expression hardened, and he absently cracked his knuckles, the little _pops_ echoing in the now silent office.

Arcturus, on the other hand, ran his hand over his face in frustration, muttering under his breath about her ‘womanish penchant for drama’, but she couldn’t care less.

After remaining silent for a moment, Crouch spoke—in a voice hard as stone. “Sirius Black’s case was not mishandled. As I told your father-in-law, the proof is insurmountably stacked against him.” 

She rebuked him, though for some reason she couldn’t hear her own voice. She attempted to speak once more, yet no sound came out. When she turned her head, she saw Arcturus’s wand discreetly trained on her from below, and she almost leaped out of her seat to strangle the old bastard when she realized he’d cast a silencing charm on her. 

“I think what my daughter-in-law is trying to say,” explained Arcturus, either unaware or uncaring of the daggers she was glaring at his neck, “Is that though you may think the proof insurmountable, it was never declared so officially as there was no trial held.”

“A trial didn’t need to be held, because, as I said before, the proof was insurmountable,” Crouch retorted, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Nevertheless, according to Statute 3 of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, as I’m sure a most learned man like you would know,” Arcturus smirked, mockingly. “Every witch or wizard is entitled to a trial, no matter how the proof seems stacked against them. As such, you are required, by law, to grant Sirius a trial. Should you refuse to do once more, I am afraid we’ll have to take this up to the Minister herself. ”

She’d expected Crouch to be seething that he could no longer hide behind his paltry excuses, to look cowed that Arcturus was forcing his hand, but instead he leaned back into his chair, steepled his bony fingers together, and smiled grimly.

Walburga didn’t like the look of it one bit.

“I suppose delaying this meeting would not have worked forever. I knew this would happen someday, however much I hoped you’d simply leave it be.”

Crouch absently rubbed the wedding ring on his left hand, “Of course, you are right, Arcturus.”

The sudden sickly sweetness of his voice caused Arcturus to glare at him across the table in suspicion. From his posture, he looked every inch a cornered animal ready to go on the defensive.

“However,” Crouch went on, the saccharine quality of his voice beginning to unnerve her as well, “According to the 1875 Addendums of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, as I’m sure a most learned man like you would know,” The mockery was not lost on Arcturus, who turned beet red in fury. “Trials, while a right, may be withheld from a witch or wizard for up to 20 years, depending on the Ministry’s availability in terms of resources to pursue the case, something that is determined by the Head of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, not the minister, nor anyone else. Right now, in the aftermath of the fall of the Dark Lord, I’m afraid we are quite strapped. So, I will, of course, give Sirius Black his trial, as is his right, it is only a matter of when.”

Walburga almost jumped across the table to choke the life out of the scoundrel for threatening to keep her son in Azkaban for so long, wand be damned, but Arcturus grabbed her hand roughly when she had just slightly lifted out of her seat, shoving her back down discreetly. 

Arcturus now had his mask firmly back in place, looking as calm and undisturbed as a still pond, though the threat was discernible in his voice when next he spoke.

“I’m ashamed to say that I had hoped you would have been wiser about this, and simply given Sirius his trial immediately instead of dragging this out based on some flimsy addendum.”

“Pity.” Crouch sneered. “I have no such plans.”

Arcturus let out an exhausted breath, sizing up his opponent on the other side of the desk with an almost bored expression. “You do know that should you be so lack-witted as to pursue this route, there is quite a strong possibility it will not end well for you?” 

Crouch nodded, grimly. “Yes, I do. It is most certainly a strong possibility that you will win out eventually, and his trial will be held much sooner than that.” 

He had the temerity to smirk, “But even then, with the little influence you have now, it will take years at the very least, and you know as well as I do that Azkaban is not a beacon of public health. The survival rates begin to drop quite drastically after more than three years. The Dementors or the poor conditions will most likely get to him before any trial takes place.”

“Like they did your son.”

Crouch recoiled slightly at the cruel rejoinder from Arcturus, then a furious scowl set into his wrinkled face.

“Yes,” he responded, teeth clenched so hard he practically hissed the words out, “Like they did my son.”

“Why are you doing this?” Walburga couldn’t help but ask, the silencing spell seeming to have worn off. 

When he turned to her, she found no trace of sympathy in his eyes, only a slight sneer of disdain, “Sirius Black is guilty. I saw the evidence myself, for Merlin’s sake the boy was cackling like a lunatic when he was apprehended at the scene, the case practically closed itself.”

Arcturus let out a short _ha,_ “Oh, spare me the heroics, Bartemius. You and I both know you’re only doing this to stop your career from crumbling any more than it already has.”

“That too,” Crouch tipped his head, not even having the shame to bother denying it, “However, I have seen enough with regards to the Black case, and I will not waste ministry resources on putting on some spectacle so that you can attempt to save your dying legacy. Nor will I allow another death-eater like Malfoy to go free because of his family’s gold.” He leaned forward, “Look around you, Arcturus, your time has passed. You no longer have the entire ministry under your thumb, and your closest ally aside from Burke is a woman who, not too long ago, was thought to have lost what little wits she had in the first place.”

Walburga saw red at the insult, “How dare you—“

“—As you have made it abundantly clear that you have no wish to pursue the wise course of action,” Arcturus cut her off swiftly, shooting her a stern look, to which she scowled. “I want you to remember before you go through with all this nonsense, that I gave you a chance to end this in a manner beneficial to us all.”

Crouch snorted, contemptuously. “Beneficial to you, you mean.”

“I would’ve ensured you had kept your position, as well as your stature if you would have simply acquiesced and given Sirius a trial now.”

Crouch laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I don’t need you to protect my job for me, Arcturus. Especially considering your sway at the moment.”

Arcturus shrugged as if it was no consequence. “Very well. Since you’re quite set in your frankly, foolhardy plans, you leave me with no choice but to destroy what little you have left to live for. Farewell, Bartemius.”

Arcturus stood to leave, pulling Walburga up along with him like some disobedient whelp to make certain she didn’t attempt to lunge for Crouch again, before the sound of Crouch’s mocking voice stopped them in their tracks. 

“I would encourage you not to start something you can’t finish. You’re not getting any younger, old friend. Should Sirius Black not die in prison, you’ll most likely be in hell by the time a trial is available to him.”

Walburga felt her jaw drop at the man’s scornful remark. True, she may have told Arcturus something to that effect numerous times, but she was a Black, not some uppity career politician from a lesser family. By what right did he dare speak in that manner to a man who was so clearly his better?

Arcturus, to her surprise, smiled widely, turning back around looking surprisingly unperturbed for a man just condemned to an eternity of suffering, “Though I do so hate to disappoint you, I don’t think death will have the patience to deal with me so soon. However, should I reach my fiery final destination prematurely, I’ll be sure to pass along your regards to Barty Junior upon my arrival.”

At the exceedingly cruel insult of his dead son, all the blood drained from Crouch’s face, his lips trembling in shock. 

“Oh,” Arcturus added, his grin almost reptilian in its nature as he went for the killing blow. “When next you visit her, be sure to leave a few roses on Dorothea’s grave for me. I'd hate for her to think I haven't been keeping in touch.” 

The ridiculing of Crouch’s recently deceased wife proved a fatal blow, as the man’s hands began shaking violently, before he spoke in a dangerously quiet voice, “Get. Out.”

“With pleasure.” Arcturus smiled widely once more, a sight so peculiar she found herself gaping at it, turning back to leave and dragging Walburga along yet again.

When the door closed behind them, they heard what suspiciously sounded like an ink-pot being thrown against the wall.

Arcturus, however, kept walking along, dragging her into an empty hallway until she fought off his grip, “How on earth can you be so calm? That wretch just told you he intends to keep Sirius locked up for decades!”

Arcturus spun around much quicker than she would’ve expected for a man of his age, pinning her against the wall with his left hand. It was then that she saw his mask drop, and on his face, there was an anger so caustic she almost flinched.

“Oh, do not mistake me for a second, girl, I am _furious,_ but unlike you, I actually know how to control myself in a civilized setting!”

“Civilized?!” Walburga yelled, not caring how her voice echoed off the walls of the cavernous corridor, “There was nothing civilized about what just happened in that office! He—“

“—Be that as it may,” he interrupted, characteristically disregarding her fury, “He will not keep Sirius in Azkaban for decades. Years, perhaps, but even Crouch knows he doesn’t have the political capital to keep this crusade going for as long as he wants. His only hope is Sirius dying in prison.”

At the mention of yet another child dying before her, Walburga sank down the wall in despair, not caring who happened upon her in this state. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing another son, her _last_ son. Were Sirius to die, there would be nothing left to live for anymore. Even at this point, she was barely hanging on by a thread.

“I can’t do this again—“ she lost her voice in the middle of the sentence, furiously wiping away the tears on her face. She hated letting her father-in-law see her in such a state, as Arcturus never did have the patience for what he saw as ‘womanish dramatics.’

Walburga heard a sigh from above her, and she looked up to see a handkerchief embroidered with the Black Family crest being offered to her by a wrinkled hand. 

Reluctantly, she took it, wiping her face as he looked down on her, his expression one of distaste for having to deal with something as tiresomely emotional as this. 

“You will not lose Sirius,” Arcturus said, assuredly. “That boy of yours is far too willful and arrogant to let something like Azkaban kill him.”

Walburga might have been hearing things, it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time, but she could’ve sworn his tone was almost fond as he spoke.

Arcturus extended a hand to get her back on her feet, which she took after a moment of brief hesitation. 

“However,” he continued, “I told you before we started this that it would take years, and that it would not be anywhere close to easy. _You_ told me that you would follow this to the ‘darkest pit of hell’, and now you’re in hysterics when we’ve barely gone six feet under.” His ever-present sneer made its way back onto his face. “If you truly want Sirius to have any chance at freedom, then stop this childish cowering every time we experience a setback, because believe me when I tell you that this will certainly not be the last.”

Though Walburga knew in her heart that he was right, she scowled defiantly at the manner in which he scolded her. She was far too proud to let him get away with chastising her like some unruly child.

“Salazar’s sake, girl.” He huffed, grouchily. “I truly haven’t the foggiest how Orion didn’t go mad dealing with a woman as mercurial and impertinent as you for 25 years. I’ve done it for barely one and I’m almost at my wit’s end.”

“The feeling is more than mutual.” She replied, haughtily—though the tone was ruined when she promptly blew her nose with the handkerchief.

* * *

** February 4th, 1986 **

“Expecto Patronum!”

She groaned in frustration as, yet again, nothing emerged from her wand but a thin blue wisp.

“Don’t stress yourself, Mrs. Black,” came the conciliatory voice of Healer Kreizler. “The Patronus Charm is a very difficult thing to master. It takes time—“

“How much time?!” she shot back, indignant. “I’ve been working on this infernal spell for three years and have nothing to show for it!”

She collapsed back onto the chaise, utterly defeated. She hadn’t gone to see Sirius Orion once over the past two years due to her inability to produce a Patronus, a requirement needed to enter Azkaban Prison. Both Arcturus and Lucretia had gone to see him dozens of times, as they appeared to have no trouble with the damned charm.

She’d still wanted to go, Patronus be damned, but both the Ministry and Arcturus himself had forbad it. The latter made her far more furious than the former. As if that man had any right to exercise control over her life.

“All you need is to focus on a good memory, a powerful memory,” Kreizler said, lowering himself back onto his armchair. 

She sighed, absently pulling a cigarette from her clutch, lighting it with the tip of her wand. “How am I to do that,” she blew out a plume of smoke, “When all my memories are tainted?”

He looked at her keenly, “Let’s delve into that.”

“Delve into what?” she replied, irritated. 

"Into your memories being tainted. I think perhaps, you are looking at them rather one-sidedly.”

She rolled her eyes at Kreizler and his double-speak. Brilliant though he was—sometimes—she had no patience for the man’s endless refusal to just get to the damned point.

“How I am looking at this one-sidedly? My husband is dead, my youngest is dead, my eldest is currently rotting in a cell and I can’t even see him.” She inhaled from the cigarette. “It’s exceedingly difficult to look back on those memories we shared and not feel some sense of melancholy.”

Kreizler turned his attention to his journal and scribbled away some nonsense or other, the sounds of his quill scratching the paper punctuating the silence in the room.

He looked back up, taking off his pince-nez and wiping them with his handkerchief. “There is much to uncover there.” He chanced a look at his pocket watch, then grimaced. “However, I’m afraid we are rather short on time at the moment, so I will leave that for another day. May I ask about your childhood? Do you not have any powerful memories from then?”

She snorted, derisively. Her childhood? She could barely remember those days. Many memories were happy, true enough, but none had the power that she felt in the memory with Orion on their wedding day, nor experiencing Sirius taking his first steps, nor seeing Regulus play the piano in front of the family for the first time. 

“No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t awful, but there was hardly anything worthy of a Patronus charm.” 

“Why do you say that?” he pressed, leaning forward in the way he did whenever he was about to say something that aggravated her. “Because of Alphard?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop significantly at this line of questioning.

She glared at him, severely. However, Kreizler was used to her moods now, so he didn’t do anything but raise an inquisitive eyebrow. 

Walburga slowly exhaled a thick plume of smoke, never taking her hard eyes off the man for bringing up the one subject she had refused to talk about over the years. 

Her relationship with her middle brother was something of a forbidden subject for him to broach—and she’d thought they’d reached an understanding on the fact that she did not want to speak of it—but evidently the wily little half-blood had got braver over the years.

“I do not know what or whom it is you’re speaking of,” she said, warningly.

“Alphard, your younger brother.” He pressed, unfazed by the murderous glare she was sending him. “That you disowned for leaving your son, Sirius, all his money.”

She stood up from the chaise abruptly, brushing off imaginary dust from her skirts. “This session is over, I will see you next week,” she said, in a voice that could freeze fire.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” he tutted. “Not so fast, Mrs. Black. We still have four minutes left. Or don’t you want your wand back?”

She froze on the spot, cursing herself. The german weasel still had her wand. She’d got far too liberal with its safekeeping over the years, a stark difference from when she’d acted as if it were an extension of her arm. 

If she left now, not only would he not return it to her, Mother would call her over the floo to scream at her for not attending her sessions, and she didn’t want to deal with the old dragon anymore than she needed to. 

Begrudgingly, she stomped back over to the chaise, practically throwing herself back onto the damned thing so fast that it made a harsh scraping sound against the hardwood floor. 

“Now, let’s speak about Alphard. Are your childhood memories tainted because of him?”

“No, they aren’t.” She replied, childishly attempting to get him to give up the questioning with vague answers.

He tilted his head in a manner reminiscent of a dog, “Are you sure?”

Walburga dug her nails into her palm, forcing herself to take a steadying breath lest he see fit to confiscate her wand from her again. “Alphard and I were…not close. I spent most of my time as a child with Lucretia.”

“Even so,” he said, leaning forward eagerly as if he’d wanted to broach this subject for the longest time. “What you perceived as his betrayal must have hurt you quite a bit.”

“It’s not a matter of what I perceive,” she gritted out in a voice of forced calm. “It is a betrayal, nothing less. Alphard gave his fortune over to someone to who was recognized as a blood-traitor within our family, making him one by default.”

He raised an eyebrow, “And yet, here you are practicing a Patronus charm in order to go visit this alleged blood-traitor. Don’t you see that as a bit of a double standard?”

Walburga glowered at him, vehemently. Of course there was no double standard, how thick could one man be? Alphard had given over his fortune to her wayward son instead of someone who deserved it, like Regulus or Narcissa. Anyone who assisted blood traitors was a party to their treachery. Now, however, Sirius was the last hope of the Blacks, so his former status was of little concern.

Although, she would be lying to herself if there weren’t other motivations behind it for her.

Walburga remembered the emotions she’d felt when she discovered what he’d done. First, there was denial, repeatedly insisting to Burke that he was wrong—that Alphard hadn’t intended to leave it all to Sirius—that he wouldn’t do something so foolhardy. Then—when she’d been thoroughly disabused of that notion—a rage so fierce she could’ve burned down the world—which she channeled to blast a hole in the tapestry so large that it even scorched some of the ’S’ in Cygnus’s name. 

But beneath all that—loathe as Walburga was to admit it—was hurt. How could her own brother have betrayed her so? He must have known that she meant to deprive Sirius of any gold so that he would give up his ridiculous crusade and come back home. She had never particularly liked Alphard, nor did he her, but he was still her brother. 

Damn it all, it had _stung_.

“No.” she finally answered. “I do not. The circumstances were different then, and they are different now.”

“How?” Kreizler pushed, a stubborn glint in his eyes eerily reminiscent of her mother’s. 

“They just are!” she shouted, any semblance of patience having abandoned her. 

He raised his eyebrows, leaning back into his chair and assessing her for what felt like an eternity until his eyes widened as if he’d struck gold. “You think that he betrayed you by giving Sirius his money because it kept him from you?”

Walburga blinked, owlishly. “How on earth do you—“

“—It clearly isn’t because of him being a blood-traitor, otherwise you wouldn’t be so much as thinking of visiting your son let alone going to such an effort as to free him from prison.” He looked down at the floor as if he was only thinking out loud rather than engaging in any conversation, then jabbed his quill in the air as if to point at her. “You blame him for your son never returning home.”

“Of course I blame him,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “If he hadn’t given Sirius Orion every sickle in his vault, he would have—“

“—Returned?” Kreizler asked, looking at her with the patience one would look at some dimwitted child with. “Runaways seldom return home because of monetary reasons, Mrs. Black. Ofttimes they’ll sleep on the streets if they have to, something which your son would have never had to do with the friends he had, according to you.” 

Walburga opened her mouth to issue a sharp retort, but the words died in her throat as she considered the point, which gave Kreizler the opening he needed.

“Did your son ever seem the type to care for material possessions, for gold? Did it make him happy?”

The questions struck Walburga in a way she didn’t expect them to. Sirius Orion had everything he could have ever wanted from a young age, and the promise of even more once he stepped into his rightful position as Head of the family, yet he cared for none of it. He spent most of his time at Grimmauld Place after his first few years at Hogwarts sulking in his bedroom, seldom speaking at their shared meals unless to pick a fight. 

“No.” She answered, focusing her gaze on a crack in the floorboard below her. “He was a thoroughly ungrateful child.” 

She heard him sigh as if he was disappointed in her answer, but he pressed on.

“So, if he didn’t care for your family’s money, what makes you think that would’ve been the reason that he returned?”

Walburga desperately tried to search for an answer in her head, if only to sate her stubbornness and prove the man wrong, but she, to her annoyance, found nothing except for more questions. 

“I—“ she faltered, then finally released a long breath, slouching over in defeat. “I don’t know.”

The telltale sound of the clock’s ticking stopping abruptly told the both of them that the session was over, a merciful reprieve from the memories she was being forced to confront. 

Walburga made to stand, exceedingly grateful that Kreizler could no longer force her to question any of her decisions, and stuck her hand out imperiously for her wand. 

He frowned, but nonetheless deposited it into her hand, and the feeling of the magic crackling atop her fingertips made her forget every doubt he’d tried to instill in her this session. 

As Walburga moved to leave, the sound of his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“One last piece of advice, Mrs. Black, before next week’s session.”

She turned to him, cold, implacable mask that every Black seemed to inherit upon birth fully fixed in place.

Kreizler put down the eagle-feather quill he had been fiddling with onto the davenport next to him. “People hurt each other. It happens to everyone. Intentionally, unintentionally, regretfully or not.”

“Can you get to the damned point!” she snapped, irritably. “I am late for an appointment.”

That was a lie, but she much preferred the biscuits and tea waiting for her back at Neptune House than any more sermons from this prying flunky. 

His lips twitched, “My point is, that that hurt I speak of, it is a part of who we are as people, a part of what we do. The beauty is,” he took a breath, looking down at his hands, “That we have the ability to heal and forgive.”

He looked up, fixing her with a pitying gaze. “Make peace with your brother. Alphard has been dead for ten years, Mrs. Black. It is past time you buried him.”

* * *

As Walburga stepped out of the fireplace and into the lavishly decorated drawing room of Neptune House, she breathed out a sigh of relief at the familiar atmosphere. She was back in her own home—there were no meddlesome bavarians to interrogate her here. 

She was greeted by Kreacher, who took her coat with a deep bow and murmured words of welcome. 

“Kreacher—I should like some tea prepared.”

The elf bowed once more, seeming quite pleased with himself. “Kreacher has already taken the liberty to prepare Mistress’s tea, it is in the solarium. Kreacher knows Mistress must be tired from dealing with the impertinent half-blood.”

Walburga smiled, giving her loyal servant an indulgent pat on the head. Unlike so many of the inferiors she was used to dealing with, Kreacher never had to be told anything twice. “Very good, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher lives to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

With a final bow and a loud CRACK, the elf disapparated back to his quarters. 

Sighing in exhaustion, Walburga began walking to the tea awaiting her in the solarium. The session today had taken far more out of her than she would’ve liked to admit, though that was most likely just due to the extensive practice of the Patronus charm. 

No matter how far back in her head she dug for memories, there was something—something strong—blocking her from achieving anything more than a blue wisp. Perhaps it was grief, perhaps something else. Whatever it was, she wanted nothing more than for it to materialize in front of her so she could strangle it for preventing her from seeing Sirius. 

Pushing these thoughts out of her head—lest her whole day be ruined—Walburga opened the double doors to the solarium, sighing in relief when she saw the bone china tea set laid out neatly on the side table by the divan.

She made for the gramophone at the corner of the room, absently scanning through the records inside the bookcase until finding the one she wanted.

Peering at the cover, she frowned at the branding on the sleeve, remembering this singer was a muggle. However, the song brought back many fond memories of her time at Hogwarts—and it wasn’t as if purebloods didn’t occasionally reach outside of the wizarding sphere for entertainment—there were only so many wizard musicians, authors, and playwrights to enjoy, after all.

Besides, at least this muggle music was up to par. Not like the nasal whinging backed by horrendously out of tune guitars Sirius Orion loved to blare around the house—or those four egregiously insolent Liverpudlians Narcissa used to fawn over.

Taking the record out of its sleeve, Walburga laid it gently down onto the turntable, lowered the needle, and made to sit for her tea. 

She mixed in her usual amount of milk and sugar—petulantly wishing her mother was here to see the sheer amount she put in—and laid back on the divan, sipping delicately and trying not to think about the forbidden topic that had come up in today’s session, instead focusing on the song.

_‘Society she says, is much too fast. Preferring her bohemia, first and last.’_

However—no matter how hard she tried—his name kept stubbornly making its way into the forefront of her mind. 

_‘She likes the theater, but never comes late. She never bothers with people she hates, that’s why the lady is a tramp.’_

Walburga grunted in frustration—all pretense of a pleasant afternoon spent in the solarium forgotten. 

Really—what right did Kreizler have to bring _him_ up? 

She’d made it more than clear to him that Alphard was a forbidden subject for her, yet as always he saw fit to stick his nose in where it didn’t belong.

Still, Walburga couldn’t help but hear the traitorous voice in her head telling her that he was right. Alphard may have been an inscrutable vagabond, but he had never shown any propensity for maliciousness. He wouldn’t have wanted to keep Sirius away from her—would he?

She thought of him then—when he was younger—her mysterious younger brother, so like her in his looks, yet so different in his personality. She thought of the mischievous little boy who used to sit in this very solarium all day, watching her and Lucretia running up and down the beach—smiling whenever she caught his eye. 

She thought of him…and the brief pangs of longing and sadness were quickly replaced by the much more familiar sensation of anger.

That same brother had given her son all he needed to be kept away from her. That same brother had betrayed her. And he hadn't even had the courage to tell her what he intended to her face, the _coward_.

Kreizler’s words popped back into her mind. 

_Alphard has been dead for ten years, Mrs. Black. It is past time you buried him._

He was wrong—Walburga _had_ buried him. 

She just hadn’t gone to the funeral. 

_‘She’s all alone when she lowers her lamp, that’s why the lady is a tramp!’_

* * *

** January 19th, 1991 **

Tea with Lucretia was—as it had been for the past ten years—tedious.

Walburga and her cousin had been closer than sisters in the years of their adolescence, at each other’s sides so often people spoke of them as a unit more than two separate people. The years, however, had seen them grow apart. Walburga had two sons and became far too preoccupied with them to deal with her cousin’s meaningless gossip—which, had begun to grate over the years. 

There was still affection there—however dispassionate the relationship had got—though it was hidden under a layer of awkwardness as thick as molasses. 

Today, however, was a special occasion. It had taken over seven years, but after re-establishing some of Arcturus's old connections—as well as some assistance from Burke, and Lucretia’s own solicitor husband—they had got Sirius a definitive trial date: August 19th, 1993. Crouch had even been demoted to some lowly ministry office for his foolhardiness in handling the case, his career in tatters—just as Arcturus had said it would be. 

Still, though it was the best date they could get, the trial was a long way off—far too long for her taste. Sirius was still locked away in Azkaban—any number of things could happen. What if he became ill? What if the dementors finally got to him? What if—

“So, dear, how have you been?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Lucretia’s voice breaking the awkward silence, completely unaware that she had been fretting in silence for the past _five_ _minutes_. Fingers absently tracing the floral patterns on the teacup, she took a moment before answering—pushing all thoughts of Sirius out of her head for the time being.  
“Fine as always.”

Lucretia nodded, absently stirring her tea even though the milk and sugar had to have been thoroughly mixed in by now.

Walburga chanced a look at her cousin. Lucretia had not escaped the years without loss. Not only did she lose Orion and Regulus, but both of her Prewett nephews had been caught up in the war and died at the hands of the Dark Lord. She hadn’t changed as Walburga had—She could still be just as impertinent if the mood struck her—but those moments were few and far between, leaving only a shell of the lively, outrageous woman she once knew. 

If anything, she was much more like Orion now—quiet and meek. 

It didn’t suit her. 

Shaking her head, Walburga folded her hands together. “And how is Ignatius?”

A smile flickered across her face, “He’s well. He spends much more time with Molly than I’d like,” Lucretia scowled—she never did take a liking to Ignatius’s only niece—though she ultimately understood his need to remain close with her. “But besides that, he’s been in good spirits.”

Walburga nodded, “And the matter of the inheritance?”

Lucretia grimaced. “He’s still not sure who it will all be passed down to in the end. The branch in Australia would be the only chance of the name being kept alive here in Britain, but he doesn’t know any of them like he does Molly and her children.”

“You could always abandon your ridiculous refusal to have children and do your duty,” Walburga said, raising a disapproving eyebrow. 

Lucretia scoffed as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “I’m sixty-four, Burgie.”

Walburga rolled her eyes. “So? You’re still in your child-bearing years, Lucretia.” Her eyes widened and she leaned in, cautiously. “Unless…your change has come upon you? So soon?”

Her cousin laughed—a bright, tinkling sound reminiscent of how she’d been in their younger days— though Walburga didn’t fully understand what was so humorous as she had been entirely serious. “No, Burgie, my change is not upon me. Children are simply a young woman’s game. I barely have the energy to deal with Molly’s brood every time I visit—“

“—For Merlin’s sake does that woman ever stop breeding? It seems she’s been with child for nine years straight!” Walburga said, disgusted.

Lucretia smiled at the comment, though she continued. “So what makes you think I could deal with some ankle-biter nipping at my skirts every day? Besides, dear, you know I never wanted children. Far too much trouble.”

_On that much, we can agree_ , she thought, darkly. 

“Speaking of troubled children,” Walburga began, tentatively. “I heard from Arcturus that you paid a visit to Sirius Orion last week.”

Lucretia nodded, though her eyes went sad at the mention of Sirius Orion—making Walburga grip her teacup much tighter than necessary.

The anxiety must have shown on her face as Lucretia hastily made to assuage her fears. “He’s perfectly healthy, dear. He seemed to be in much better spirits than the week before last. It’s just—difficult, seeing him in that place is all.”

She nodded, slightly relieved. “At least you get to see him.”

Walburga turned her gaze firmly on the teapot in the center of the table, blinking away any semblance of wetness in her eyes, until she felt a tentative hand covering her own.

“You will see him, Burgie. Whether it’s before he leaves that abominable place or after.”

Despite the reassuring words, after everything that happened to her Walburga couldn’t help feeling slightly pessimistic. “And if he doesn—“

“—You mustn’t think such things, Walburga.” Lucretia cut in, an unexpected amount of steel in her voice.

Walburga felt the hand on hers tighten and looked up to see Lucretia’s face set in an obstinate expression, grey eyes so unwaveringly coolheaded she could almost believe it was Orion in front of her and not his sister. 

Almost.

Walburga nodded, unsure of herself. “Forgive me, I—I,” she let out a self-deprecating snort in an obvious attempt to save face. “I worry far too much, I suppose.”

Lucretia’s face softened, “As any mother would. Though there’s a stark difference between worry and pessimism. His trial is in two years—”

“—Two and a half—“

“—So there’s no need to fret. Have faith in your son, Walburga—He’s much stronger than you give him credit for.”

The gentle scolding surprisingly didn’t raise Walburga’s hackles, her response simply one agreeable nod. 

Lucretia sighed in a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “Azkaban has not quelled your boy’s rebellious spirits one bit, Burgie. Still just as lippy as always, of course.”

A shadow of a smile flitted across Walburga’s face. “What else could there be to expect from him?”

Lucretia put her teacup down with a _clink_ , leaning in conspiratorially. “He tells me that Papa visited last week with a _ring binder_ filled with potential marriage options.”

Walburga rolled her eyes, annoyed. “Arcturus _does_ love to play match-maker.” 

Lucretia let out an undignified snort. “Match-maker is putting it kindly, Burgie. It’s more like breeding horses for him.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “Though isn’t it a bit soon for marriage talks? The trial isn’t for another two years.”

Lucretia dipped a knife into the jam, spreading it over a piece of toast. “You know papa—always likes to plan ahead.” 

Her words were light, though her tone was much cooler at the mention of her father. 

“You’re still not speaking to him?” Walburga asked, desperate to change the subject.

Lucretia chewed on her toast—seeming to prolong the act as long as she could to avoid answering the question—until finally, she swallowed. “We speak, once in a while. We exchange owls. It’s just—never been the same since…”

She cleared her throat and shrugged airily in a pitiful attempt to look blasé. “Well, not much has changed, truth be told. We never did have the most loving of relationships, contact is just—more infrequent now.”

She seemed to shrink back into her seat—once again going back into her Orion-like state of solemn brooding. 

Walburga looked at the now melancholic Lucretia like she was attempting to handle a skittish animal. She never was the better at comforting between the two—ironic, considering the fact that she was a mother of two, and Lucretia spurned even the idea of children—though she felt that it was only fair that she at least make an attempt. 

Tentatively, she reached out with an open palm—patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. 

Lucretia looked up at this with a furrowed brow—only to burst out laughing at the expression on Walburga’s face—which, judging from the way it felt, seemed to be a mixture of a pathetic attempt at a reassuring smile and a grimace. 

Walburga scowled at the perceived mockery. “I was simply attempting to—“

“—I know, Burgie,” she interjected in between giggles. “I know, and I appreciate the attempt.”

Walburga made a ‘hn’ sound in the back of her throat, haughtily looking down at her cup of tea. “I should hope so.”

After that, they settled into a silence that was far more companionable than the first. 

* * *

After Lucretia had left—much later than usual—Walburga had drawn herself a hot bath,changed into her nightclothes, and went over to the davenport in her father’s old study. 

It was a routine she was used to at this point—equal amounts of comforting and terrifying—and it made her feel at peace, for a few minutes at least. 

Gazing down at the parchment in front of her, she took in her own words: 

_My Dearest Sirius,_

_I don’t remember any clouds when you were young. Were there any, my son? It seems I can recall so much and yet so little, these days. Sometimes, I can see you and Regulus sliding down the banisters here clear as day—your father waiting in the wings to scold you for acting up, and Regulus for allowing himself to be dragged into your schemes. Sometimes, there is nothing. Only silence—the shattered visage of a once-proud, upright family—and the dull, aching feeling of having lost something._

_I don’t know which one is worse._

_Much has changed since the night we last saw each other. I still cannot believe it’s only been fifteen years. To me, it feels like a lifetime. To you—well—perhaps the same. My husband and precious son—your father and brother—dead and buried, you locked away in Azkaban. We have both suffered far more than either of us deserve, though I am content in knowing that we will receive our justice someday soon._

_You must have wondered why I have not written to you much. I am sure it has caused you some grief, and for that, I am deeply sorry. I know that there is nothing I can say to alleviate the hurt, though I would hope you give me the chance to explain._

_I suppose I’m afraid. I am not the mother you knew all those years ago—though perhaps that’s a plus in your view. I don’t know who I am anymore. Can I still call myself a wife, I wonder, when my husband is buried in London? Can I still call myself a mother, when one son’s body was lost to me forever and the other is rotting in a prison cell? Who am I?_ _What_ _have I become?_

_The truth is, I don’t know. Some days I look in the mirror and see nothing but a broken, pitiful woman. A woman whose time has passed her, a woman in whom a malignance has spread. An unassuming face that hides the abomination within that is my soul._

_Other days, I see a proud woman. A woman who did the best she could for her family. A woman who fulfilled the duties expected to her, and who is still just as bold and brazen as she was twenty years ago._

_Which do I believe? How can I try to get to know my son when I don’t even know myself anymore?_

_I don’t know. Perhaps I will never know._

_But I do know this: I love you, Sirius Orion. More than you can possibly understand, and more than ink and parchment can convey. You are my first son—and now, my last. I will crawl through the circles of hell if I must to ensure you are safe, and back with your family where you belong._

_Regards, your loving mother,_

_WDB_

Walburga read the words repeatedly, her eyes taking in each sentiment—each deep sense of insecurity, shame, grief—that she felt, all compiled into a letter that she had effectively written hundreds of times, and nodded in satisfaction. 

She reached for the lit candle on the right-hand side of the davenport, rotating it so as to let the wax pool onto the folded parchment. 

Once enough wax was on it, she reached for the seal stamp of the black family crest and pressed down onto the pool of red wax. 

Pensively, she held the letter in her hand for a short while. Walburga found her fingers absently tracing over the family crest, mouthing the motto _‘Toujours Pur’._ A proud motto for a proud family. One that didn’t let their emotions be seen by anyone else— even by themselves—especially in a manner so brazen as this. 

As time passed and the words of the motto began to echo louder in her head, Walburga knew it was completely foolish to even think of sending such a letter. She may not know much about who she was anymore, but that didn’t mean Sirius Orion deserved to know her struggles either. She loved him, that much was true, but there were so many things she’d held back saying. His irresponsibility, his complete shamelessness in running away like some thief in the night, How he’d broken his father’s heart to the point of fatal illness—No, _no_ she couldn’t send something so—so _maudlin_ and _self-flagellating_. He would think most of the blame was off of him. 

It wasn’t. There was plenty of blame to go around. 

Sighing at another failure in communication, she opened the mahogany box on her right-hand side, revealing hundreds of other failed attempts at letters, each one discarded for various reasons: Too cheerful, too depressing, too self-pitying, too blameful, not blameful enough, etc. 

This one would have to go in the pile.

She tucked it neatly into its own space, right next to the overly resentful one she’d written yesterday, and closed the box—a profound feeling of dissatisfaction setting in yet again.

Walburga found herself wondering when it would cease. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> P.S. for any wondering about the comment about Lucretia being 64 and still in her childbearing years. Since wizards have a much longer average life span, I think it's only logical that they tend to age much slower than muggles as well.  
> Please leave a comment if you can! They're such good motivators and I love all the feedback.  
> If you wanna chat with me on Tumblr, give me an ask, anything:  
> https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1992-1995  
> Sirius Black discovers a shocking truth within the walls of Azkaban Prison, meets his godson, and breaks into the house of his fathers—only to find a rather unpleasant surprise.

**PROLOGUE: SIRIUS**

* * *

**March 21st, 1992**

“One…two…three…five.” 

“ _Shit!_ ”

“One—two—three—five.”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

“One, two, three, _fou_ —“

A chill coming from the end of the room stopped his ramblings, and he promptly curled into himself in a futile attempt to ward off the crushing despair that always came with the dementors’ approach. 

It never worked.

Dementors were never the type to warn their victims of their arrival. When they came, it was with a sort of deafening silence—punctuated only by the desperate wailing of a few prisoners echoing off the stone walls—some begging for their mothers, others begging for death.

_For me,_ Sirius thought, _those two are one and the same._

As the hooded figure approached, the air grew unbearably cold—the small puddles of water in his cell freezing over into ice, his breaths coming out in visible puffs.

Memories that he’d tried his damnedest to shove into the back of his mind all of a sudden came to the forefront—a merciless onslaught of cutting remarks and feelings of inadequacy that made him feel sixteen again.

_“Shame of this house!”_

“Shut up…” he mumbled, trying in vain to block out their voices.

_“Why can’t you comport yourself honorably like your brother?”_

“Shut _up_.”

_“You seem to be laboring under the delusion that your affection means anything to me. I don’t want your affection, boy—I want your respect.”_

“SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!!”

The voices stopped abruptly—the chill leaving shortly afterward—signaling that the dementors had crossed over into the other hallway. Sirius let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging in relief.

He picked at his tatty robes—the black and white stripes having over time faded into different shades of grey—absently pulling a thread his sleeve around his finger.

The thread brought a flash of memories to the forefront of his mind—sewing needles, tangled messes of yarn, nervous chattering. 

Lily. 

She had been so excited before Harry was born. Sirius remembered how she turned knitting a decent baby cap for him into a damned crusade, her mood swings getting the better of her whenever she failed—which was most of the time. 

James had been over the moon that he was going to be a dad—mindlessly chattering on for hours about how his son would be the greatest quidditch player to ever live, how all the girls would swoon over him, how he would get up to just as much mischief as the four of them once he got to school.

And when he came— _God_ , they worshipped that boy. The spitting image of his dad, with his mum’s eyes. Doting on him all day, feeding him like a damned hippogriff. They were the best parents he’d ever seen. Although—Sirius thought, sourly—he supposed in his experience the bar was rather low. 

The best parents he’d ever seen. 

But now they were dead—and Harry was an orphan. 

Because of him. 

“All your fault,” he murmured to himself, clenching his fists. “All your fault, you fucking—“

His voice broke, either because of the emotion or the fact that he hadn’t had water in two days. Perhaps a combination of the two.

Clearing his throat, he decided he’d try to get some sleep. It’d been, what—hours? days? He didn’t know. Time seemed irrelevant in this fucking cesspit, he’d long stopped bothering to keep up with it. 

Either way, it would serve to clear his head. He transformed, padding around in a circle for a few seconds, until finally curling into himself and dozing off.

Thankfully, the dementors never bothered Padfoot. 

Only his ghosts did. 

* * *

**July 17th, 1993**

The sound of voices down the hall woke him.

“Is this it, then?”

"Yes, Minister.” 

His ears perked up. Minister? Could that mean—but— _no_ , it couldn’t have been a year already? Then again, he’d lost the ability to tell time years ago, so perhaps it could have been. Fudge's yearly visits were something he'd looked forward to since he'd been elected Minister.

He was a skittish one, and scared rather easily—much to Sirius's amusement.

It was only when he heard the steps getting closer that he realized he was still in his animagus form. 

_Shit._

He quickly transformed back, just in time for Fudge to stop right outside his cell.

“Is he awake?” Fudge asked, sounding slightly out of breath. 

“I dunno, minister, He should be,” one of the guides replied. He took out his wand, banging it on the rusted iron bars, “OI! BLACK! WAKE UP, MINISTER’S HERE!”

Fudge reprimanded the man, harshly. “I didn’t tell you to wake him, you idiot—“

Sirius snorted, humorlessly. The minuscule amount of light in his cell must’ve made them believe he was asleep. Then again—his gaunt, filthy appearance probably did him no favors either. 

“Not to worry, Minister, I’m already awake, no need for any of that racket,” Sirius said, haughtily.

Fudge muttered a quick _lumos_ , pointing the light into Sirius’s cell. 

“Black,” he greeted, curtly. 

“Cornelius,” Sirius replied, cheekily, with a tip of his head. “Welcome to my humble abode.” He made a sardonic sweeping gesture with his arm towards the rest of the cell. “I’d offer you a spot of tea, but regrettably there’s no tea—only spots.”

Fudge pursed his thin lips, his sausage fingers gripping the wand in his hand even tighter. 

“So,” Sirius stood up with a slight groan, “To what do I owe the visit?”

Fudge appeared to fidget slightly under his gaze, eyes nervously darting to the floor. Sirius seldom agreed with his grandfather on—well— _anything,_ but the old blood-sucker was right about one thing. 

Fudge _was_ a doddering fool. 

“Ministry inspection,” Fudge answered, appearing to regain some of his confidence. “Just the same yearly inspection.”

Sirius nodded. “Of course. I always look forward to these visits, you know. It saddens me greatly to think this may be the last time we do this.” He said, voice taking on an exaggerated wistful tone. 

At the reference to his upcoming trial, Fudge grew uneasy once again, nervously running his thumb over the hilt of his wand before responding.”Yes, well, just wanted to check this top level before leaving. Apologies for my—er— _overenthusiastic_ companion here.” he leveled a glare at the young guide, who simply shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “Goodbye, Black.”

As Fudge turned around to leave, Sirius noticed the copy of the prophet in his other hand, along with—much to his amusement—the headline. 

_SIRIUS BLACK: STRIKING SCAPEGOAT OR MALICIOUS MURDERER? TRIAL HELD IN A MONTH TO DECIDE THE FATE OF BRITAIN’S MOST INFAMOUS BACHELOR_

His curiosity getting the better of him, he called out to Fudge right before he reached the next hallway.

“Minister!”

Fudge turned around, blinking owlishly. The guide beside him looked over at Sirius suspiciously, tightening the grip on his wand.

“You mind if I take that copy of the prophet off your hands?” He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’ve missed doing the crossword.”

Fudge opened and closed his mouth a few times in bewilderment, before clumsily acquiescing, waddling back to his cell, and holding out the newspaper for Sirius to take. 

Sirius snatched it off his hands with one swift motion, relishing the brief flicker of fear in the minister’s eyes.

“Thank you.” He grinned widely. “Have a lovely day, Cornelius.”

Fudge muttered a stuttering goodbye, before half-jogging out of the room, catching up with his bored young guide. 

Once Fudge left the hallway, Sirius sat back down on the cold stone floor, brushing away some water that had leaked in from the hole in the ceiling. 

He began reading the paper, taking in every sensationalist description of him and his crimes that Skeeter had written with a vague degree of amusement, before he reached the middle of the article. 

_The confrontation on the muggle street occurred after the murders of James and Lily Potter at the hands of He-who-must-not-be-named—Husband and wife were slain at their cottage in Godric’s Hollow on October 31st, 1981—_

Sirius put down the paper, abruptly—Not being able to stomach another word of Lily and James. 

He had enough reminders of them in his nightmares.

Shaking his head, he turned the page, hoping to find something else to distract himself from this hellhole. Aside from the nightmares and unwelcome flashbacks, Azkaban was not known for its stimulating environment, and the odd copy of the prophet was the only reprieve from boredom he had aside from some ghastly books his grandfather lent him on horse breeding. 

As he skimmed through, he caught sight of a headline on the third page, with a large picture to accompany it. 

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE_

_Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw._

_A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, “We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a cursebreaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank.”_

_The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasleys currently attend._

_Well, good for the Weasleys,_ Sirius thought, sarcastically. However, this domestic trite wasn't exactly his idea of stimulating. Was there nothing of note in this blasted paper? At least one interesting story would be enough. 

When he was about to turn to the third page and try his luck with the sports section, the moving photograph in the center of the article caught his eye. He didn’t know what it was—a movement, a facial expression—but something, something _familiar_ caught his attention.

It was when he looked at the youngest Weasley boy that he felt his stomach drop. 

On his shoulder was a rat.

A rat that he hadn’t seen in twelve years. A rat he thought dead. 

No.

No— _No—_ It—it couldn’t be, the very idea was fucking _absurd_. 

_It’s this place_ , he decided. _This place has finally made me go ‘round the fucking twist_.

It was only when he rubbed his eyes and peered closer that his suspicions proved to be more than just hallucinations. 

The unevenly colored fur, the overly large ears, the chipped front tooth.

And missing on his right paw—a finger. 

A finger that was though to have been all that was left of the coward. 

With a wave of revulsion, horror, grief, and above all, _anger,_ the realization set in.

_Wormtail_.

* * *

** July 23rd, 1993 **

“Oi, Black, you have a visitor!”

Sirius woke to the gruff voice of one of the guides—followed by the irritatingly loud creaking of the rusted cell door opening. 

He wondered who it was going to be this time. The only visitors he got were Aunt Lucretia and Arcturus, and they usually took turns—visiting him every other week. However, for the past three weeks, to his eternal delight, it had only been Lucretia. Arcturus appeared to be far too busy with his upcoming trial to bother visiting, so perhaps he’d get lucky again this week. 

And perhaps Lucretia would listen to him about Wormtail. 

He’d pored over that photograph in the prophet obsessively, and each time his suspicions were confirmed even more. It was Wormtail—he was sure of it. 

The traitorous bastard must have changed into his rat form and stolen away the past twelve years as a family pet. 

His animagus form truly did suit him.

However, if he was that boy’s pet—that meant that he would be at Hogwarts with him.

With _Harry_.

Harry would be, what—second, third year by now? Either way, Wormtail could get to him if he was with that boy— _especially_ if he was in Gryffindor.

No, he needed to get out—and quick. Lucretia would listen—perhaps she could talk to Arcturus about—

All of a sudden, a blinding flash of white appeared before him—and when his eyes adjusted to the light, it wasn’t Lucretia’s laughing hyena that greeted him—but Arcturus’s glowering eagle, eyeing him with what could only be described as contempt.

Sirius let out a moan of despair, repeatedly hitting the back of his head against the walls of his cell. 

Predictably, the tell-tale sounds of his ebony cane thumping forcefully on the stone floor followed the patronus, and he prayed to every god that he could think of that the old vampire would just snuff it before he reached the cell. 

As always, none of them answered. 

“Sirius,” came Arcturus’s curt greeting.

Sirius sighed, hopelessly—mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like _‘I don’t wanna’._

He heard an impatient sigh from above him. “Get up, boy, we haven’t all day.”

Sirius grudgingly got to his feet, glowering at his grandfather while the guard put on the customary chains required whenever a prisoner was to go to the visiting rooms. 

Arcturus remained unfazed by the murderous glare that his grandson was sending him. In fact, his sharp stare—eerily similar to that of his patronus—began to unnerve Sirius so much he hastily looked away.

They began their walk down the hallway, the eerie silence only ever being broken by the constant thump of Arcturus’s cane. Whenever he had a visit from Lucretia, usually a few jibes would be thrown their way by the inhabitants of his floor, but Arcturus—stoop-shouldered and cadaverous as he was—had such an air of self-assurance and gravitas to him that it had a way of quelling any semblance of mockery before it even began. 

As they continued their trudge down to the visiting rooms, they were stopped in their tracks by the only person who ever had the gall to defy Arcturus’s silent command. 

“Well, well, Sirius—another visit from grandpapa?” Bellatrix chucked, provocatively.  “You two have grown so close over these years it truly touches my heart.”

The guide appeared annoyed that they’d stopped, tapping his foot impatiently, though neither grandfather nor grandson paid him any mind.

“Tell me,” she leaned forward, bony fingers wrapping around the rusted bars, “Do you speak to him of your nightmares? I can hear you, you know? Even all the way down here.” She scoffed, her lip curling in disdain. " _Lily, James, ‘m sorry, please, please, wah-wah._ It’s truly quite disruptive to my own sleep.”

Sirius saw red and stepped forward, chains be damned—wanting nothing more than to wrap his fingers around her pale throat, strangle the crazy bitch, and watch the life drain from her black eyes—but he was stopped by a cold, iron grip on his arm forcing him to stay in place.

He turned his gaze to Arcturus, who met Bellatrix’s challenging stare with a sneer of contempt. He reached into his frock coat, pulling out a single chocolate bar and dangling it in front of her face as if she were a dog. 

Bellatrix, for her part, appeared to be a mixture of outraged at the mockery and desperate for the brief reprieve the chocolate offered from the horrors of the dementors. 

“Here, girl,” he said, tauntingly. “Fetch.”

He tossed the chocolate into the cell and watched as Bellatrix scurried to grab it off the floor and began to tear at the foil wrapping. 

Arcturus gave her one last sneer, “Your father truly should’ve given you a good beating every once in a while to remind you of your place.” 

Ignoring the hateful glare she gave him, Arcturus moved along—much to the relief of the prison guide—dragging Sirius down the hallway like a dog on a leash.

After an extremely uncomfortable walk down the stairs and Arcturus finally letting go of his uniform collar, they reached the visitor’s room. 

Sirius felt the warmth wash over him as soon as they stepped in—breathing in the clean air greedily. 

“You ‘ave twenty minutes, make the best of ‘em,” the guide said, promptly slamming the door shut behind them. 

Arcturus moved over—rather gingerly for his age—to a chair in the middle of the room, pulling out a large binder, and some more chocolate from his frock coat.

Sirius had once jokingly called him Mary Poppins for the sheer amount of things he managed to fit in there. After he’d explained to Arcturus who Mary Poppins _was_ , he’d got a stinging hex to the arm for the quip.

Predictably, Arcturus went straight into listing off various women that would ‘potentially suit for putting you out to stud’, as he so poetically put it. Sirius had known this was the only reason the old bastard ever saw fit to grace him with his presence. The Blacks had lost their perfect—and final—legitimate heir, so he was needed in order to prevent the line from dying out. 

He’d sooner take the dementors. 

Still, though he wasn’t entirely sold on a trial (Lord knows he was guilty of many other things), it would at least give him the opportunity to see Harry again—perhaps he could even take him in.

But he couldn’t wait for the trial. Harry wasn’t safe with Wormtail lurking about—even if Hogwarts’s first term didn’t start until September, his trial would last weeks at the very least. He couldn’t wait that long. Harry needed someone to watch over him, to protect him from that bastard.

He owed Lily and James that much.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice that his grandfather had been droning on for the better part of fifteen minutes when he looked at the clock. 

“—And then there’s Abigail Travers, a bit young, perhaps—just graduated from Hogwarts—but her family has a very large plot of land in Norfolk we've coveted for many years. Besides, Travers women are well known for birthing sons.”

Arcturus pulled out a photograph of a young girl—brown hair, grey eyes, smiling into the camera. Sirius scowled when he saw the Slytherin prefect badge pinned to her lapel. 

“Well?” He shook the photograph as if to draw more attention to the girl. “Doing anything for you?”

“With all due respect, _sir_ , I don’t want to speak with you about my prospective child brides,” Sirius groused. “I need to speak with you about—something important.”

Arcturus glared at him for the impertinent comment, but let it go unremarked upon. He closed the binder—his ‘breeding catalog’, he called it—and steepled his fingers together. 

“Well, if there is something that is more important than _securing our thousand-year line,”_ He drew out the words, sardonically. “I’m all ears.”

Sirius took a breath, willing himself to attempt to explain this without sounding like he was off his bloody rocker. 

“Pettigrew.”

Arcturus sneered at the surname, “Your ill-bred lackey who stabbed you in the back and got you into this prison? I fail to see how he is of any importance.” Arcturus sighed, “If this is about the trial, Burke has built a solid defense—“

“—It’s not about the bloody trial!” Sirius cut in, exasperated. “Well—I mean—I suppose in theory—“

“—Eat the chocolate on the table and stop talki—“

“—He's alive!”

Arcturus’s eyes widened in surprise for a fraction of a second, then promptly narrowed to slits.

“What do you mean…he’s ‘ _alive’_?” 

“He’s alive! I mean it—look,” He fumbled around in his tatty uniform for the clipping, finally putting it out of a half-torn pocket. “Here! It’s him!”

Arcturus donned his pince-nez glasses, squinting at the photograph until rolling his eyes heavenward and pressing his fingers to his temple. 

“That is a twelve-year-old Weasley boy,” He spoke with the forced patience of someone dealing with a particularly stupid child. “Lucretia’s great-nephew, in fact.”

Sirius ran his hand over his face in frustration. Did the old codger actually think he was mad enough to believe Wormtail was a third-year student? 

“Not him!” He pointed forcefully at the boy’s shoulder. “His rat!”

Arcturus looked up from the paper—tipping his head to the side sarcastically, before replying in a deadpan voice. “His rat?”

Sirius groaned—He knew how ridiculous it sounded— _Merlin, he really did—_ But this was the truth. He knew this was Wormtail as well as he knew he was Padfoot. They’d all seen each other transform more times than he could count, this was _him_.

“He’s an animagus—takes the form of a rat. I’ve seen him transform—hundreds of times—I _know_ it’s him.”

Arcturus’s face still held a great deal of skepticism. “You know this—how? And if you know it, why haven’t you seen fit to tell me in the—oh, I don’t know— _ten years I have been preparing your case.”_

Sirius grimaced, unaware of the dilemma he’d dug himself into. He couldn’t reveal that he was an animagus to his grandfather—Not just because he didn’t want to reveal anything more about himself to this _mummy_ than he needed to—But because if he did, he’d be betraying Moony’s trust. 

If Arcturus knew that one of his friends was a werewolf, he’d use it against him—and to get him to comply with all of the medieval designs he had in mind for his life. 

Because he knew that Sirius would sooner die than betray a friend.

“I just—know, all right? I’ve seen it. I’m telling you this is him!”

Arcturus began clicking his jaw in thinly-veiled annoyance, a clear warning to Sirius that he should stop whatever he was doing immediately, but Sirius refused to heed it.

“Your friend Pettigrew is dead,” he said, in a definitive tone clearly meant to close the subject. “Salazar’s sake, boy—all they found of him was—“

“—A finger!” Sirius pointed at his grandfather repeatedly, as if this strengthened his point. “A finger! Can’t you see that rat’s missing a finger?! The bloody coward cut it off so that everyone would think he was dead! And then he transformed into a rat!”

Arcturus stood up from the desk with a slight groan and walked over to his grandson.

Sirius—who’d begun thinking out loud about how Pettigrew could’ve possibly gone all these years in his animagus form—was too wrapped up in his tirade to notice his grandfather shifting the weight on his cane from his right hand to his left, pulling his hand back, and—

_SMACK!_

Sirius stumbled back from the unexpectedly strong slap to his face. He had to grip the edge of a chair in front of him in order to maintain his balance. 

Did this sodding corpse really just—did he—did he _slap him_? 

Clutching his cheek, he cursed at Arcturus. “What the fuck did you do that fo—“

“—You listen to me and you listen well, you insolent whelp,” Arcturus cut in, forcefully. Sirius found himself staring up at his grandfather like he was a six-year-old whose hand had got stuck in the biscuit tin. 

“Your trial is three weeks away— _three weeks—_ I don’t know what exactly it is has got into you since the last time I visited, but whatever it is, it stops— _Now_.”

“You—you hit me!” Sirius said, still in disbelief. 

“Yes, and I’ll do it again if you keep spewing this addlebrained nonsense about rats in newspapers being long dead murderers,” Arcturus replied, matter-of-fact. 

_Well when you put it like that it really does sound fucking barmy,_ Sirius thought. 

“Pettigrew is alive—“ Arcturus growled in displeasure, but he barreled on, “I need to warn Harry—I can’t let that fucking traitor get his filthy paws on my godson.”

His grandfather looked like he might hit him again, but—to his surprise—he simply sighed in frustration. 

“Your trial is in three weeks—” Sirius opened his mouth to argue, but he was silenced by his grandfather. “— _Listen to me, Sirius._ ”

Sirius blinked. Arcturus hadn’t called him by his first name since—well, _ever_. It was always ‘whelp’, ‘pup’—or ‘boy’ when he was feeling particularly indulgent. 

“Your trial is in three weeks. The case will most likely be resolved in two, and you will go free. After that you can go searching for traitors in every rat’s nest in the country for all I care—just take care not to cook up any harebrained schemes until then. Do I make myself clear?”

“I can’t wait that lo—“

“ _—Do I make myself clear?_ ”

Sirius swallowed, glaring at Arcturus, severely. 

“Yes, sir,” he gritted out. 

Arcturus assessed him for a short moment, until giving a stiff nod. 

The sound of the guard opening the door signaled the end of their visit. 

“Here,” Arcturus said, handing him five chocolate bars. “Eat these. They’ll help clear your head of any more foolish notions. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Sirius nodded, gruffly. 

He was pulled along back to his cell by the guide, and the entire time there was only one thought in his head. One sentence that echoed in his mind all the way to when the dementors opened his cell door to give him that barely passable slop they called ‘dinner’. 

_‘I’ll see you in two weeks.’_

He wasn't going to wait that long. He _couldn't_ wait that long. Harry needed him now _—_ If that boy was hurt because he decided to wait for his freedom, he would never forgive himself. No _—_ He'd made his choice. It was utterly mad, and quite possibly the stupidest plan he'd ever come up with, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

_I’ll see you in two weeks.’_

_No, you won’t,_ Sirius thought, slipping out of the cell as Padfoot. 

_No, you fucking won’t._

* * *

** June 6, 1994 **

Sirius didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so surreal.

Crookshanks was leading the procession down the stairs; Lupin, Pettigrew, and Harry’s friend were behind him. Behind _them,_ were himself, and—much to Sirius’s glee—Snivellus being dragged along by him with his own wand. Harry and his other friend (girlfriend?) were bringing up the rear.

Harry. _Merlin_ , the boy was so like James it made his chest hurt. His hair, his face, even his damn voice. It was almost like he had his best mate back. 

But his eyes—they weren’t James’s mischievous hazel—No, they were that deep, warm green that he remembered from their fireside chats, the late-night exploding snap games they played while James was away on some order business, the ones that had looked at him with sympathy and understanding when he’d got plastered after hearing about his father’s and Regulus’s deaths. 

Those were all Lily’s.

As they made their way into the tunnel, they began edging along the tight space awkwardly—Sirius making no effort to prevent Snape’s head from repeatedly hitting the ceiling. 

_Hell_ , he was enjoying it. 

One thought niggled its way into Sirius’s mind. He’d only ever intended to watch over Harry and kill Pettigrew when he got the chance. But now, if he was free—really, truly exonerated by bringing wormtail in—what would he do about him?

He knew that Harry had been staying with his aunt and uncle—but—would he want to come live with him? Sirius was his guardian, after all—Lily and James had made it so—but, what if he was happy with his aunt and uncle? He knew that Lily’s sister and her walrus of a husband held no love for wizards, but he found it exceedingly difficult to believe that they hadn’t formed some sort of bond over these 13 years.

Either way, he owed it to Lily and James to at least ask. 

“You know what this means?” he said to Harry, abruptly. “Turning Pettigrew in?”

“You’re free,” Harry replied. 

“Yes…” Sirius nodded. “But I’m also—I don’t know if anyone ever told you—I’m your godfather.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” Harry replied. 

Damn it all, how was he going to be able to ask this? Sirius found his mind producing nothing but a frustrating blank. It took him a long, awkward pause to gather his words. 

“Well…your parents appointed me your guardian,” he said, stiffly. “If anything happened to them…”

Sirius swallowed, trying to ignore the long, searching look Harry was giving him. 

I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle,” he said, scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. “But…well…think about it. Once my name’s cleared…if you wanted a…different home…”

He heard a slight crack on the rock behind him and turned to see Harry looking at him with a bewilderment that made his stomach drop. 

“What—live with you?” Harry said, in disbelief. “Leave the Dursleys?”

And there it was. He knew of course that it was a possibility, but it stung no less. Harry was probably better off with his uncle and aunt anyway. He barely knew him after all. Really, it was a ridiculous question to ask in the first place. 

But then—why did it hurt so much?

“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” he said quickly, turning his head back to hide his hurt. “I understand, I just thought I’d—“

“—Are you insane?” Harry cut in, sounding almost as emotional as he was. “Of course I want to leave the Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move in?”

Sirius turned on his heel to look at Harry, finding—to his surprise—an earnestly hopeful look on his face. 

“You want to?” he said, hating how thick and vulnerable his voice sounded. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it!” Harry replied.

For the first time in thirteen years—Sirius’s face broke into a smile. Not a grim, cynical, self-deprecating smile, but a _true_ smile—a happy smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled like this. Was it the night he last visited Lily and James? The last time he’d gone out for a drink with Moony and Wormtail before Halloween?

Whenever it was—it didn’t matter. None of the past did. Right now, he wasn’t the disgraced son, the lousy brother, the rubbish friend. 

For the first time since Lily and James died, Sirius was _happy_. 

For the first time since he’d broken out of Azkaban, Sirius was _free_.

* * *

** June 29th, 1995 **

Thirty-five years. That’s how old he was now. A hardened man, a man who’d been wrongfully imprisoned for thirteen years, had gone to hell and back. And yet, gazing at the empty square of Grimmauld Place, he felt every inch the naive, cheeky sixteen-year-old boy he was when he was here last.

It hadn’t changed much—hadn’t changed at all really. Each row house was still as it was when he’d left, the oak trees remained positioned inside the guards on the sidewalk—even Mr. Wilson’s treasured old ’37 coupe was parked right outside of Number 14, still looking as clean as it had twenty years ago. 

Everything was the same.

He didn’t know whether it comforted or disturbed him.

Grimmauld Place was not exactly a bastion of happy memories. The last time he’d been here, he was jumping out of the window—making his way to the Potters, away from his insane family and their repugnant beliefs. Sirius couldn’t take it anymore—his mother’s screeching, Father’s cutting dismissals, Regulus’s refusal to question anything they said. All that noise had driven him to finally grow a pair and leave. 

Now, however…Now he was afraid of the silence.

A sharp pinch on his toe from what could only be a pair of steel-toed combat boots judging by the sheer weight of the things disturbed his musing.

“Damn it, Tonks—you stepped on my foot!”

“Blimey—“ She grimaced, apologetically. “I’m sorry, mate.”

Sirius shook his head, annoyed. Meeting little Dora again confirmed two things: One, she wasn’t so little anymore—Two, she was still as uncoordinated as she’d been when she was a child. 

“Are you alright, Padfoot?” Remus spoke up, looking at him with concern. 

“I’m fine, Moony. We’re almost there—just—“ he sighed, waving his arms around dismissively. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot. Since Voldemort’s return last week, the Order of The Phoenix had finally started up again. Everything was just as it was during the last war, full steam ahead. Soon enough there would be more raids, more missions, more battles. 

The only problem was that Sirius couldn’t do any of that. 

Instead, he was relegated to the sidelines. Voldemort’s people knew his animagus form now and the Ministry still had it out for him, so he was forced into hiding. 

Basically, he was fucking useless. 

But now, there was something he could do for the order. Dumbledore had said he needed a new headquarters—somewhere that was untraceable, warded to the nines, empty and abandoned.

And Sirius knew just the place.

Arcturus had told him that Grimmauld Place had gone untouched ever since his mother moved back to Neptune House in ’83. No one had so much as entered it in ten years. He’d said that as soon as Sirius was freed, control of it would pass over to him, and he would move back in. 

_Better late than never,_ he thought to himself. 

“Here,“ he said, gazing up at the narrow space between buildings 11 and 13. “It’s here.”

“Black,” came the questioning voice of Bill Weasley, “You said Number Twelve?”

Sirius sighed, irritatedly. “Wait here.” 

He moved to the narrow alleyway—narrow was an understatement, really, a cat could just barely fit through this space—and reached on the side of Number 11, brushing his hands against the wall until finding the outline of the family crest carved into the brick. 

As soon as his hand touched the crest, the stone began to rumble, and he quickly backed away—watching the awed looks on his companion’s faces with distaste as a Georgian townhouse twice the size of all the others on the block began to push both numbers 11 and 13 out of its way, reclaiming its rightful space after only God knew how many years.

Examining the outside of the house, Sirius frowned when he noticed the sheer amount of grime on the bricks and the windows, as well as the black door that—though he’d never once seen it looking anything less than impeccable—was now battered and splintering. 

He peered over at his wonderstruck companions, “We’ll need to find a different charm to reveal the house once we make sure everything else is in order.” 

The three of them turned at the sound of his voice, blinking as if they’d exited a trance. 

“Come on,” he motioned them to the steps, “Let’s get this over with.”

Weasley checked the door for any extra protective wards, and when it was clear there were none preventing them from heading inside, he grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed.

The sight that greeted him as soon as he uttered a quick _‘lumos’_ was not one he would have ever thought to see.

It was a complete and utter mess.

The foyer, once the pride of Grimmauld Place—a room meant to intimidate with its staid victorian sort of grandeur—was caked in several layers of dust. The grand staircase located right in the center still towered over the room—but looked far more rickety and splintered than it ever had. The once opulent baroque patterned wallpaper was actually _peeling off the wall_ in several places, revealing the grimy wood paneling beneath.

At the—surprisingly—disturbing image of the wreck that was Grimmauld Place's foyer, a traitorous voice niggled its way into his mind. 

_This is your fault,_ it said, the voice being the same one that haunted him all those years in Azkaban, _All your family’s legacy in ruins, Regulus and father dead, all because you couldn’t be—_

—No. No, fuck that. None of this was his fault. It was _theirs. They_ were the ones who forced him out, _they_ were the ones who allowed Regulus to join that fucking death cult. Besides, even if it was his fault—shouldn’t he be glad? What was his family’s legacy? Old Ophiuchus killing his trueborn brother for an inheritance. Equuleus ‘taking care’ of the two young York princes so that Richard III could ascend the throne. Canopus imperiusing the muggle family that once lived here in order to ‘clear them out’. 

Backstabbers, murderers, and thieves. That was his family legacy. He should be glad it was all in ruins, he should be overjoyed that they were finally on their last legs—brought to their knees to answer for their crimes. 

So then—why wasn’t he?

He'd expected to be glad to see it emptied and abandoned, to see all his father's work torn to shreds. However, now all he felt was—to his shock—grief. Grief and longing—longing for the few happy days of his childhood he could remember. Longing for the times before Hogwarts, when life was simple, when he wasn't yet the Gryffindor disappointment.

But all he found at Grimmauld Place was an echo, an echo of what once was—perhaps it had never _been_ in the first place—yet still, he wanted nothing more than to cling to it, to seize upon the brief pangs of happiness and never let them go. 

It was a foolish notion, though. Because the good memories here were tainted, and far outweighed by the bad. 

And Sirius had long since succumbed to them.

Shaking his head at these thoughts, he turned to Weasley and Tonks. 

“You two,” He pointed at the staircase. “Go check that the second floor is clear, Remus and I will secure this level. Once you’re finished, wait for us at the landing. _Wait_ , do you understand? There’s all manner of shit in this house that would love nothing more than to take out some blood-traitors and half-bloods.” 

Weasley and Tonks nodded, beginning their walk up the staircase.

“Come on, Moony, let’s check the drawing-room.” 

Remus nodded, giving him a few questioning looks along the way as if to ask that he was fine. 

As they walked down the hall, Sirius broke the silence. “If you have something to say, Remus, then say it. I’m tired of you looking at me like I’m a bloody powder keg.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Padfoot, it’s just that you’ve been—“

“—I’ve been what?” he scoffed, coldly. 

“Tetchy,” Remus finished, tone disapproving at the interruption. _Once a professor, always a bloody professor._ “You haven’t exactly been in the best of spirits today, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Sirius answered, voice a decibel too high to be believable. “In fact, I’m doing great. Phenomenal, really.” 

“Sirius—“

“—Look, Remus, _enough_ already. If I say I’m fine, that means I’m fine.” 

Remus frowned in annoyance, but murmured an _‘if you say so’_ and let the matter drop.

When they reached the double doors of the drawing-room, Sirius was surprised to find that they were open. Although, he supposed that if they let the place devolve into _this_ over the years, a few open doors weren’t a great shock.

He walked through the entryway, even more surprised to find that the mess in here was worse than the mess out there. 

Everything here appeared to be even dustier in this room. The piano looked like it might disintegrate at any moment. One of the chaise’s legs had broken off and forced it awkwardly onto its side. Two chairs were tipped over, haphazardly. There were water stains on the walls, almost evenly dispersed throughout the room. The only thing that appeared to be in good condition was—

—The tapestry. 

Unconscious of his own movements, Sirius immediately walked over to the wall where it hung. He found himself tracing down every name until he finally found his parents.

_Orion Black_

_b. 1929, d. 1979_

Cursing himself for the painful twinge he felt in his chest upon reading his father’s death date, he moved to the left of his name. 

_Walburga Black_

_b. 1925_

So, the old bat hadn’t snuffed it after all. Sirius really wasn’t all that surprised. Even death wouldn’t have the patience necessary to deal with that crazy bitch. 

_Regulus Black_

_b. 1961, d. 1979_

Sirius found himself tracing over Regulus’s name, eyes beginning to feel far too wet for his liking. 

“I should’ve taken you with me,” he murmured, regretfully. 

He could almost hear his brother’s response. 

_'I wouldn’t have gone.'_

Sirius sighed, running a hand over his face. He _wouldn’t_ have gone. Reggie was always the one who toed the party line, who never questioned a damn thing their parents told them. He’d lived for pleasing them. 

_And died for it,_ he thought, bitterly.

Shaking his head, he finally turned his eyes to the left, and found—

—exactly what he expected to find. Right there, to the left of Reggie’s name, no larger than a cigarette burn, was the price he’d paid for jumping out the window. The only thing visible was his birth date. 

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. 

Yet it still felt as if someone had dropped a piano on his head. Tracing over the burn mark, he found himself remembering what had happened that fateful night. 

_“You have the_ gall _to speak to me that way? After what you did, traipsing about the city like some common muggle filth?!” came the shrill voice of his mother._

_“Oh please,” he slurred, still drunk off the cheap scotch he was drinking when they found him. “As if you care what it is I do.”_

_His mother walked up to him, and he could see from how white her knuckles had gone from holding her wand, as well as how her lips were trembling, that she was nothing short of furious._

_“You disgrace our name, the name of your ancestors! You spit on our legacy, on everything that we have ever given to you—“_

_He scoffed, “You’ve given me_ shit _.”_

SMACK!

_The sheer force of the slap, combined with how plastered he still was made him fall over on to the floor, clutching his now flaming cheek._

_“HOW DARE YOU! SHAME OF THIS HOUSE, CHILD OF MUCK—“_

_“FUCK YOU!” He shouted, still sprawled on the floor, attempting—fruitlessly—to mask the hurt he felt at his mother’s words. “I don’t matter to you—for people who care so much about family, you don’t give a damn about me—I’m supposed to be your son!”_

_“No son of mine would speak to his mother as you have.”_

_This cold, cutting remark—surprisingly—didn’t come from his mother, but from his father, who’d been watching the display between his wife and son with growing unease._

_Sirius was sure if a heart could actually break because of someone’s words—his would be shattered right now._

_That was it. All the confirmation he needed._

_If there was a flash of regret on his father’s face, or on his mother’s, he couldn’t see it through the tears of hurt and humiliation clouding his eyes._

Sirius clenched his jaw, refusing to let the memory worm its way in. He’d let it happen far too much in Azkaban. 

He turned to see Moony with another concerned look on his face, and before he could open his mouth to tell him where he could go shove his unwanted opinions, Tonks came through the doorway.

“Oi—We heard something!” she whisper-shouted, “On the floor above us, some movement!”

Sirius blinked—There was no way—Arcturus had said that no one had touched this place for ten years, and by the look of it, he wasn’t lying. It was probably just a sodding book that some old poncy ancestor of his charmed to bite the fingers off of children for not eating their vegetables. 

Still, it could be a danger if there were going to be actual people living here over the summer, so it wouldn’t do to just leave it be. 

He motioned to Remus—who nodded back—and they made their way down the hallway and up the staircase, where they found Weasley waiting with a grave expression on his face.

Sirius was just about to tell him there was no reason to look so grim, but before he could the sound of a violin interrupted them. And along with it—static. It sounded like—

—Like one of his mother’s old music hall records.

There were five things he knew Walburga Black loved: Control, Regulus, Sherry, Muggle swing (However much she hid it, he’d seen the damn records), and those creepy old Victorian music hall songs—a love she’d inherited from his great-grandfather Cygnus. 

His stomach dropped as he recognized the tune. One of her favorites.

_ Far away beyond the glamour of the city and its strife, there’s a quiet little homestead by the sea. _

Every bone in Sirius’s body was screaming at him to run, to leave this cursed place and forget it ever existed. And yet, he found himself moving upstairs, beckoning the others to follow him. It surely couldn’t be her.

_Where a tender loving lassie used to live a happy life, contented in her home as she could be._

No one had been here for ten years, it had to have been some magic leftover from before they’d abandoned the place.

_Not a shadow ever seemed to cloud the sunshine of her youth, and they thought no sorrow could her life befall._

As he reached the last two steps to the third floor, he saw a light peeking out from the parlour. It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her. 

_But she left them all one evening and their sad hearts knew the truth, when her father turned her picture to the wall._

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. If he repeated it to himself enough times, he could almost believe it. 

_There’s a name that’s never spoken, and a mother’s heart half-broken, there is just another missing from the old home that is all._

He reached the door of the parlour, shaking fingers nervously grasping the doorknob even though everything inside of him was telling him not to. 

_There is still a memory living, there’s a father unforgiving!_

Opening the door, his stomach dropped as he saw her—wand in hand, gazing at them all murderously. 

She hadn’t aged much at all, to his shock. She was wearing that black lace dress, her favorite—her hair was tied back in that trademark chignon, only a thin stripe of gray on the side of her head showing any signs of aging. Not a wrinkle to speak of.

She always did say Black women aged gracefully. 

He almost wondered if it was a mirage—if he was standing here gawking at nothing but a figment of his imagination—if the others thought he’d finally gone mad. 

It wasn’t until he saw her eyes widen when she looked at him and heard her furious voice that he knew it was too good to be true. 

_ “YOU!” _

_And a picture that is turned toward the wall!_

“…Oh, fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering--this is the song Walburga's listening to.  
> https://youtu.be/2knkJckCRwM  
> Picked it because--one, the lyrics match up PERFECTLY with Sirius lmao, and two, it also sounds creepy as fuck and would be terrifying played in an abandoned Georgian townhouse.  
> Thank you all for reading! Please comment on what you thought (I do so love comments)  
> This marks the end of the Prologue, and next chapter the main story will officially begin! We'll get a new POV in the beginning (Hint: name rhymes with Schmegulus), then that'll be followed by wally and Sirius's--um, explosive reunion lol.  
> If you guys wanna ask me anything, feel free to chat with me on Tumblr :)  
> https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black returns to England, and Sirius and Walburga have a rather explosive first encounter.

**ACT I: PROMETHEUS UNBOUND**

_Life may change, but it may fly not;_   
_Hope may vanish, but can die not;_   
_Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;_   
_Love repulsed -but it returneth.”_   
_― Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound_

* * *

** June 24th, 1995 **

** Appia, L’Aquila, Italy **

When Alfred had first come to this village—nothing more than a scared child leaving everything he’d ever known—a kindly old man had stopped him, sensing his anguish.

Alfred had told him—in a series of halting breaths and the occasional sob—that he'd done something awful, that he should've been dead, that people would be looking for him.

The old man had shaken his head as if it was no consequence, smiled at him reassuringly and said:

_‘Ad Appia non importa chi eri prima, solo chi sarai adesso.’_

‘Appia does not care who you were before, only who you’re going to be now.’

Walking down the town’s gorgeous main street, smiling and waving at the friendly faces who offered him warm greetings, he could only agree with the man. 

In the years since that fateful morning he’d arrived here—soaking, traumatized, barely a galleon to his name—the people of the town had taken him in, wrapping him in their proverbial blanket, sheltering him when he’d needed it. He’d found work in a small bookshop, helping the elderly man who ran it and taking up residence in the small loft right above it. Five years after his arrival, when Signore Bianchi had retired to Modena to be with his daughter, he was given ownership. 

This quiet, simple life, all taking place in the backdrop of pastoral wonder that was the Apennine Mountains was more than he could’ve ever hoped to have.

It was more than he _should've_ had. 

Or, depending on who you asked, it was _less_. 

Opening the door to the bookshop with a tap of his wand, he walked in, greeted by the sight of his ever organized bookshelves—each volume tucked securely into its rightful place. 

Alfred wasn’t the type to tolerate a disorderly shop—Had he been, he would have never been given control of it in the first place.

Laying down his bag onto the old divan by the window, he walked over to the register, carefully avoiding the old raise in the floorboards—lest he trip again. His first two months here were chronicled by various bumps and bruises whenever he had the misfortune to forget the damned bulge existed. 

Throughout the day, he greeted many of the same people—Carlotta, who would frequently purchase fantasy books for her grandson. Davide, who always enjoyed the newest mystery novel on the shelves. Filippo, who could never resist—to his family’s chagrin—the old muggle books Alfred had tucked into a small corner in the back of the store. 

Around late afternoon, just as he was about to close up shop, he heard the light tinkling of the bell signifying another buyer entering the shop.

Looking up from the copy of the latest prophet (Of course Potter’s son would cheat his way into the Triwizard tournament) He saw someone distinctly unfamiliar. 

A woman, mid 20’s. Brown hair, olive skin, green eyes. She was quite pretty—gorgeous really. How had he never seen her before? Appia was a relatively small town—the kind of place where you knew your neighbor—for a person to go unnoticed by him for sixteen years was close to impossible. 

As she was scanning the shelves, he found himself stealing glances at her every so often, discretely looking up from the prophet to observe her.

She really _was_ beautiful.

A smirking voice interrupted his gawking. “C’è qualcosa nei miei capelli?”

He cursed under his breath.

_Apparently not as discreet as I thought._

“No,” he answered, sheepishly ducking his flushed face back into the prophet. 

“Sei sicuro?” She turned around, and looked to be enjoying herself quite a bit. “Dal modo in cui mi guardavi, ho pensato—“

“Mi dispiace,” he apologized, awkwardly stumbling over his words—painfully aware of how red his face must have been. “È solo che non ti avevo mai visto prima—“

“It’s alright,” she said—in shockingly good english—“I’m just teasing you.” 

“Ah, well—that’s…funny I guess,” he gulped. “Er—your English, it’s quite good.”

She grinned widely, showing off a set of shockingly white teeth. “My mother’s English, so I grew up speaking it.” 

He blinked. “Oh—how—nice.” He cleared his throat, hoping not to get into too deep of a conversation about England—lest he be asked to reveal too much. “Forgive me, but how did you know I was English?”

She snorted. “Your Italian accent is quite good, almost flawless really.” She leaned in, mischievously. “Keyword being ‘almost’.”

Alfred raised a haughty eyebrow. His Italian was _perfect_ , thank you very much—after all he’d learned from one of his governesses when he was five, and she’d told him he was exceptional at the language. 

His older brother was less of a natural, however, never learning much beyond how to ask for different types of pasta. 

“Yes, well, most of the locals here say it’s practically indistinguishable from their own,” he replied, voice slightly petulant.

She chuckled, “I did not mean to offend you, sir. I apologize if this is how my words were taken.” 

Alfred’s lip twitched slightly upward. “It’s quite alright.” 

He almost left it at that until his eyes widened in shock at his poor manners. “Oh my—er—forgive me, I’m Alfred—Alfred Hitchens.” He tossed the copy of the prophet onto the counter and stretched his hand out, “And you are…”

“Francesca Crescenzio,” She shook his hand.

Crescenzio…The name sounded vaguely familiar—though he couldn’t quite remember why. 

_Oh, it was probably nothing._

“You’re new to town, I take it?”

“Oh yes,” Francesca nodded. “I’m doing a potions apprenticeship here, just arrived last week.” 

“Oh, how interesting!” Alfred smiled, brightly. “With who, may I ask?”

“Signora Ciancaleoni,” she grimaced.

Alfred scrunched up his nose, sympathetically. Signora Ciancaleoni had a bit of a reputation in Appia for being, well, not the most _patient_ potioneer to work with. Still—harpy she may be—the woman was also a genius in her field. And rarely took on any apprentices. Francesca must have been quite well connected. 

Crescenzio—Where _had_ he heard that name before? 

“Well, I do hope she’s treating you well.”

Francesca snorted, “She screamed at me for half an hour today because I dropped _one_ flobberworm,” She waved around her index finger as if to drive home how ridiculous it was. “ _One_.”

He scoffed, dryly. “Well, I, for one, agree with her. If we let one slide, what’s next? Two? Three? It’ll be…flobberworm anarchy before we know it.”

She laughed at the—admittedly subpar—joke, and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. 

Alfred couldn’t help but notice that she looked familiar—her eyes in particular brought about vague memories that he couldn’t quite interpret—whatever it was, he found himself strangely drawn to her. Though he knew it would be quite presumptuous of him, he cleared his throat and attempted to ask anyway.

You only lived once, after all. Well...twice, in his case.

“Well, if you’re new to town, I could show you around sometime. I mean—“ he swallowed, “If you needed some help in getting used to it. I know how strange it can be to be in a new place. Of course, maybe you don’t need to be shown around—I’m not implying that…”

She looked as if she was trying very hard to hold in a laugh. “If I may be so bold, are you trying to ask me out, Mr. Hitchens?”

Alfred sputtered, nervously. “I—er—well—“

“—Because if you were,” she cut in, looking quite amused at his stammering. “I would not object to a cup of tea sometime.”

He blinked, “Really?”

“Yes, whenever it’s most convenient.”

“Right now?” He blurted out, promptly flushing in embarrassment at his boldness. “I mean—I, er, assume that you’re not doing anything right now—and I’m about to close up for the day, so, If you wouldn’t mind…”

“It is a bit short notice,” She looked at her watch, feigning consideration. “Though I have nothing to do right now, so why not?"

“Great! Oh, wait—“ He grimaced. “Did you not want to buy something? I mean this is a bookstore after all, and you came in, so,“

She smirked, “I think I’m quite satisfied with what I’ve acquired.” She winked at him, impishly, causing him to flush to the tips of his ears. “I’ll wait outside then.”

Alfred was sure he’d gone as red as the paint on the walls, but he shook it off—and as soon as she exited the shop, promptly waved his wand to levitate the boxes of new releases he’d received today behind the counter—ready to be put in their proper shelves tomorrow. 

He went to retrieve his bag off the divan in the back room, though just as he was about to reach for it, he felt a searing pain on his left forearm, and he hunched over in agony. 

After the initial surprise subsided, he began to feel dread pooling in his stomach. He hadn’t felt a pain like that since…

“Oh my god,” he whispered, fingers clutching his forearm tightly almost as if to will away the pain.

But—no, it couldn’t be. He destroyed the locket—years ago—he’d watched it scream and fight (Good god, did it _fight_ ), then turn to nothing but a molten shell. Without Slytherin's locket, the Dark Lord had been made mortal, his death had become permanent. Yet, Alfred knew of nothing else that could activate the Dark Mark, nothing except for a summons from _him_. 

But—It couldn’t be him—It _wasn’t_ him. 

Perhaps it wasn't even the mark at all—it could just be a pain. Yes, just a random pain—that's all it was.

So then, why was he afraid to roll up his sleeve?

Cautiously, he pulled down the sleeve of his jacket, and promptly began to dry heave when he saw it—writhing around on his arm in all of its terrifying, twisted glory, the black ink so bold you’d think sixteen years hadn’t gone by. 

It was with the emptying of his stomach onto the backroom floor that he finally admitted it to himself—the terrible truth that he knew in his heart was the only possible explanation for this.

"He's back," he uttered to himself, falling back onto a trunk in stunned horror.

_"He's back."_

* * *

** June 28th, 1995 **

** Appia, L'Aquila, Italy **

It’d taken three days for Alfred to close up the shop properly—to make sure that everything was in order with his lease, as well as with the suppliers that delivered the newest volumes to his shelves—and after that, he’d spent another two attending various farewell parties hosted in his honor by the townspeople. He'd told them that he was going to be going on extended leave to England, in order to resolve a family emergency.

Which was, in a way, true.

The tea date with Francesca had…not exactly gone _too_ well, as he was white as a sheet the entire time, teeth chattering in fear over the Dark Lord’s return and pointedly dodging her questions about England—much to her continued annoyance. It had ended after he’d refused to answer one of her questions in a manner _far_ ruder than intended, and had seen him come home with his hair and jacket both dripping with the remnants of her Earl Grey. 

_I don’t expect I’ll be receiving any love letters from_ her _any time soon_ , he thought, sardonically.

Now, here he was, standing in the middle of his apartment—a suitcase in each hand.

Looking over the loft he’d called home for the past sixteen years, Alfred felt a slight twinge of melancholy. 

Everything was packed up into boxes neatly stacked alongside various corners of the loft. He wasn’t going to be moving them all—in fact all he was taking back to England were two suitcases—though it wouldn’t do to have all of his possessions collecting dust. The furniture had been covered with drop cloths to ensure the same. 

Seeing it like this was…strange. It didn’t look like the place where he’d learned to _actually_ cook for the first time, or the place where he’d lived for three years with Anna, or the place that he would retreat to every night with a good book and a glass of pear brandy.

It looked so… _barren_. Empty. Just like it was when he’d arrived here. And strangely, he found himself feeling just as he did back then—scared, lonely, vulnerable. 

Except last time he was leaving his home—a stranger in a strange land—this time, he was returning home.

_ Wasn’t he? _

Would England even be home anymore? So much had changed. Some of which he knew, some of which he didn’t. From what he could tell his mother was still alive, as were his grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Though no one had seen or heard of his brother in about a year, Alfred was sure he was still alive.

Had he died, he wouldn’t have gone quietly. 

Truth be told, he didn’t know what he’d find once he got there. If his mother was still alive, would she be living at home? Or would she have moved off to one of the family’s empty estates scattered throughout Britain? If she was still there, then….

Well—he’d deal with _that_ when he arrived.

Sighing, he reached inside the pocket of his frock coat, pulling out a single photograph.

The picture was faded quite a bit. The edges had yellowed over the years, and his family’s faces had been worn down over the years from how much he’d rubbed his thumb over them—though their aristocratic features and haughty, superior looks were still plain as day. 

Was he ready for this? To face them all again?

No. He wasn’t. 

But it didn’t matter. He’d almost died trying to defeat the Dark Lord—he _would_ have died, if not for a certain house elf finding a loophole in his orders—that meant that this was _his_ war now. Not just Dumbledore’s, not just _Potter’s_. 

And if the Dark Lord had come back without the locket, that could only mean that there were more Horcruxes. He was the only one who’d known a thing about them—as far as he’d known. No one else could have had that knowledge without being in the Dark Lord’s confidences.

And if there were more…that meant that his work wasn’t finished. 

For this war to end—to really, _truly_ end—Alfred Hitchens would have to die. 

And Regulus Black would have to come back to life. 

* * *

** June 29th, 1995 **

** London, England **

Walburga couldn’t quite decipher the mix of emotions going through her at the sight of her wayward son. 

She’d happened upon a stack of photographs in one of the sitting rooms at Neptune House. Photographs of Orion, Regulus— _Sirius_. Of the times before that abominable sorting debacle, when Sirius hadn’t spent all his days sulking in his room and going out to cavort with the filth living beyond the bounds of Grimmauld Place. 

Because of that, in a fit of melancholy—and having consumed a few glasses too much of sherry—she found herself within the walls of Number Twelve for the first time in ten years. 

And who should she encounter but him? 

Him and three others. A most improperly dressed witch—whose face looked vaguely familiar—a haggardly man with scratches all over his face, and— _Oh, for God’s sake_ —a _Weasley_.

Her boy looked completely gobsmacked at the sight of her and could only utter one profane sentence. 

“Oh, fuck me.”

Her eyes narrowed at the language, but she didn’t say anything for a long while—still unable to choose what it was she wanted to scream at him for first. 

“Er, Black?” said the Weasley, fidgeting under her gaze, “Who’s—who’s this?”

“My mother,” he breathed, almost involuntarily. 

“Oh,” was all he could say. 

The pink-haired hussy’s eyes widened at this, but she wisely kept silent. 

“Sirius,” said the haggardly man, looking at her son in disapproval. “Didn’t you say that this house was empty?”

“It was,” he said, appearing to have snapped out of his shock enough for his voice to sound defensive. He addressed her directly for the first time, “Aren’t you supposed to be at Neptune House?” 

A hot wave of indignation shot through her at his impertinent question. He had the temerity—the _gall—unbelievable!_ Judging from the way he shrank back in instant regret after asking the question, it showed on her face. 

“You have the _effrontery,”_ she hissed, voice dangerously calm, “to ask _me_ where _I’m_ supposed to be?”

“Well, excuse me for thinking that this decrepit old mausoleum wouldn’t exactly be where you spend most of your time.” 

Her eyes widened in fury, and she was about to open her mouth to shoot back a stern rebuke before he turned to his co-conspirators. 

“All of you, I think you should go.”

All three blinked in unison. “Sirius—“ said the haggard man, concerned—before her son interrupted him.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine. I just—“ he waved his arms about in that impertinent way he’d done since he was two, “need to deal with—this,” he gestured to her, “I’ll contact you once I’ve left and we can—look for a new place.” 

_Oh, my boy, you’re never leaving this house again._

They appeared to accept this, however hesitantly, and promptly shuffled out of the room.

When he heard the sound of the door close, he turned to her.

“I—erm,” he rubbed the back of his neck, having the grace to look embarrassed. “I suppose I should say hello.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she put her palm flat against the red wallpaper, hearing a slight crinkle from how loose it had become. “ _Hello_?” she said, dangerously quiet. “You escape from prison _three weeks_ before the trial your grandfather and I spent _ten years_ securing for you, and you can only say, _Hello_?”

“Well, excuse me, but there isn’t exactly a set protocol for this!” he snapped, peevishly. 

She continued to glare at him—shock, surprise, and longing warring with anger and resentment. 

Sirius swayed on his heels, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room as fast as he could. 

_Over my dead body._

“Look—just,” He frustratedly ran a hand through his (far too long) hair, “Just forget you ever saw me, alright? I know that won’t be too difficult for you. You don’t want anything to do with me anyway so just—don’t say anything.”

Walburga actually laughed—what a foolish boy he still was. “Forget I saw you? Oh no, my boy. You and I aren’t done by a _country mile_.” 

Sirius gulped, giving her the same fearful face he’d gave when he got caught eating the cake a day before the celebrations for his fifth birthday. “W-what?”

“You actually think that I’m so mind-numbingly simple as to let you leave this house without so much as an explanation for your abominable behavior?!” Walburga’s voice rose with each word—her anger going from icy to sweltering within seconds.

Sirius looked very much like—what was that damned muggle phrase he always used?—Ah, yes: ‘A deer in headlights’. Though he shook off the shock relatively quick. 

“What abominable behavior? What the bloody hell are you—” 

“—Do _not_ play the fool with me, Sirius Orion!” She snapped, furiously. “You know exactly what I’m speaking of! Escaping from prison a mere _three weeks_ before your trial—destroying _everything_ your grandfather spent ten years rebuilding—because of what?!”

He sighed, “Look—“

“A RAT! YOU ESCAPED PRISON BECAUSE OF A DAMNED RODENT!”

“IT WASN’T JUST A RODENT!” He screamed back—finally, to her relief, not acting the dullard—“IT WAS—”

“Ah yes!” She scoffed, mockingly. “The dark lord’s servant! Of course—Arcturus told me that little tidbit after I woke up to the headline that you’d broken into Hogwarts!”

“HE WAS!” Sirius paced around the room, restlessly. “And in case you don’t know—that rat was the one who brought back Voldemort!!”

Slightly recoiling at his brazen use of the name, she turned around—refusing to let him see an ounce of weakness. The Dark Lord was still someone that made a shiver go down her spine at a mere mention.

He’d taken her son away from her. In a sense—he’d taken both.

She shook off the fear quickly, however—turning back around to face her son. “Of course you believe that,” she snorted, humorlessly. “You would trust that muggle-loving fool if he told you the sky was green! Why should I be surprised you believe his and Potter’s nonsense about the dark lord’s return.”

“IT IS NOT NONSENSE!” Sirius pointed outside the door as if Dumbledore and Potter’s half-blood whelp were right outside. “My godson is not a liar! Nor is Dumbledore! In fact,” he scoffed, “I trust both of them far more than I trust any of you snakes!”

Walburga was sure she could feel her blood boiling—though Sirius had gained some confidence and steamrolled over any words she would’ve thought to say next. 

“Though, it’s no wonder you don’t believe the obvious truth! You were certainly obtuse enough to disregard the threat last time.”

“I suppose it wasn’t much of a threat to you—you and the rest of this damn family were probably cheering that monster on!” Sirius snorted, derisively. “And Arcturus wondered why I ever left you bloody lunatics!

Walburga crossed her arms, glaring daggers at her son. Thankfully, Sirius had retreated to the side table—his back turned from her, breathing heavily—there would be no more interruptions now. 

“You, you think you’re above us, you always have.” She scoffed, “The righteous scion, misunderstood by his family, courageously jumping out of a window to leave them and their—what was it you called them?—‘wretched ideas’ behind?” Walburga sneered, contemptuously. “Let me disabuse you of that fantasy—abandoning your responsibilities wasn’t brave, it was cowardly. Though, I suppose I should expect no better. You never did like things that didn’t come easy to you.”

Sirius’s face flushed scarlet—and he stuttered angrily for a few moments before finally gathering his words and shouting, “The only thing that was cowardly about me running off was that I didn’t do it sooner!”

Walburga froze—an unexpected stab of hurt felt at his words—though she rallied quickly. “Of course you would be proud of that.” She gripped her wand tightly, “Breaking your father’s heart, dragging our name through the muck—“

“Oh please!” He rolled his eyes, dismissively. “You two practically forced me out—I’m sure you popped open the old champagne as soon as you were rid of me!”

Walburga let out what sounded like a low growl, “You have no idea what you’re speaking of. Do you have any inkling what it was like when you left? Do you have a clue what your little escape did to your father?!”

Sirius laughed, a disparaging sound which made Walburga see red. “I’m sure he was glad to see the back of me, considering how little interest he took in me in the first place! He probably signed the documents making Reg the heir with a smile on his face!” He laughed, coldly, though the jealousy and resentment was evident in his voice. “The perfect prince, taking his rightful throne at last!”

“THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED!” She shouted, a stray black-gray curl coming loose from her chignon, “Your father never disinherited you!”

The shock on her son’s face at this was something she oddly found herself relishing, and it lasted long enough for her to use it as an opening. 

“That—that’s not—that can’t be—“ he stammered, looking almost disturbed.

“Arcturus wanted him to drag you back against your will, and he refused! Do you know why?”

Sirius blinked, his face still frozen in open shock. He was—for once—at a loss for words. 

“Because he knew—he hoped—that you would come back in your own time. Every day he waited, and every day that you didn’t come home, it broke his heart.” Walburga could hear the quiver in her voice, but she didn’t care. All of this—nineteen years of repressed emotions—had finally come to the surface and there was no locking them back up now. 

“I had to watch my husband—my proud, strong husband—slowly waste away into a shell of himself, and die from a bout of dragon fever like some pauper! All because you had to abandon your responsibilities and unload them on your brother! It’s no wonder that Regulus is buried right next to your father now instead of standing here with me—when one takes into consideration your abysmal sense of duty!”

“You keep his name out of your mouth!” he yelled, lips trembling in hurt and anger. “You want to drop father’s body at my door—Fine!” The thickness in his voice suggested it was quite the opposite, though he went on. “But don’t you dare act like I have any semblance of responsibility for what happened to Regulus!"

“And why not?” Walburga shouted back, her breath coming out in furious pants. “Your little escape didn’t happen in a vacuum, you know? Did you actually think that your brother— _your fourteen-year-old brother_ —was ready for the responsibility that you dropped on him?” 

Sirius recoiled as if he’d been stung—though he quickly rallied, composing himself quite admirably, “Reg was meant for that far more than I ever was—“

“—Regulus wasn’t meant to lead!” She interrupted him, furiously wiping away a stray tear. “You left him here to mop up the mess that you made! And what happened?! The vultures came and they tore us apart! No one would have laid a hand on him had you stayed to counter it, no one would have dared!”

“That wasn’t my responsibility—That was yours! You and father were the ones who failed him, not me! I was supposed to be the one to stop him from joining that fucking cult?” He laughed, humorlessly. “How about you and _Orion_ be parents for once and do your bloody jobs!!”

“How dare you?!” Walburga yelled, stomping over to where Sirius stood until their faces were barely two inches from each other. “You dare to speak his name?! You dare to stand here and lay the blame on him when he isn’t even alive to defend himself?” She leaned closer, poking a finger into his chest to punctuate each word. “You who killed your father with your cowardice?!” 

Sirius’s face went an unbecoming shade of red, and for a long moment she thought he might burst into tears, but he turned on his heel and walked to the corner of the room—looking every inch a lion licking his wounds. 

After a few minutes of a thick silence punctuated only by the ragged breaths of mother and son, he spoke in a surprisingly monotone voice. 

“You speak quite a bit about me killing my father, mother,” He turned around, and she noticed a fury in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Perhaps you’re right. But Regulus—that wasn’t me. No—not me.” 

“Who then?” She asked through gritted teeth. 

Sirius sneered, an expression that looked distinctly out of place on his handsome face.“Regulus wanted to be noticed—He wanted to impress you, you and father. But did you ever look at him twice?” He scoffed, “Of course you didn’t.”

Walburga felt something in her stomach clench at the words he was speaking—feeling an awful sense of foreboding at what it was he was attempting to lead up to. 

“Tell me—who was it who always preached about the importance of keeping the line pure?” He moved toward her, like a lion stalking its prey. “Who was the one who didn’t stop him from getting involved with Lucius Malfoy and his crowd of sycophants? Who was the one that never once thought to question what he was doing all those undoubtedly late hours of the night?”

“Stop,” she said, her breathing growing shallower at each question—ones that Walburga had asked herself thousands of times all those horribly lonely nights at the institution—though Sirius paid her no mind, his voice growing even louder.

“Who was the one that spent all of her energy on me—never bothering to pay any ounce of attention to the son that actually deserved it?!”

“Stop!” She said, though her voice sounded weaker and more desperate.

“Who was the one who knew so little about her younger son and the life he was leading—that she allowed it to get to the point of death?!” He was yelling now, back ramrod straight and seeming to relish the way his mother shrank back at each assertion.

“You have the gall to stand here and tell me that I killed my father, as if you’re innocent? As if you have no blood on your hands?! I killed my father?! WELL YOU KILLED YOUR SON!” 

Walburga felt every wall that she’d spent the past ten years building—every barrier she’d erected to keep out the guilt, the doubt, the painful questions, the awful truths—crumble to dust. Her sight became blurred with what distinctively felt like tears.

Sirius—for his part, seemed to immediately regret what he’d said, his face dropping all of its previous cocksureness. She could make out a hasty apology, though it sounded distant and fuzzy to her ears.

All of the frenzied emotions she felt quickly united to form a powerful burst of the most familiar one—anger. 

“Out,” she said, her breath labored. “Out, OUT!” She pushed him with all the strength she could muster, and he fell back into a side table, desperately clutching the lace table overlay to keep from falling. 

“OUT, DAMN YOU!” Walburga screamed, “SHAME OF MY FLESH, ABOMINATION, CHILD OF MUCK AND MIRE!” She grabbed the vase on the dresser nearest to her, and threw it at him, watching as it shattered over an area of the wall close to his head.

Sirius quickly scrambled out of the room, hastily slamming the door shut right before she threw a crystal ashtray.

As soon as the ashtray broke into hundreds of pieces, she felt the anger subside—and in its place a sadness so crushing came that it made her fall to her knees. 

All the tears she’d held back came rushing forward, and soon enough she was sobbing in a heap on the floor—a broken woman surrounded by broken things. 

Out of all the thoughts racing through her head at the moment—every single shred of self-doubt and guilt that had spent the last ten years locked away in some deep recess of her mind—there was one that cut into her deeper than any of them.

He was right. 

_Damn it all_ , he was right.

* * *

Sirius had regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. 

However, he didn’t quite get the chance to explain that to his mother once she started throwing things. After that, it was either stay in that room or end up a Sirius-shaped hole in the wall. 

Behind him, he could make out the sound of something falling on the floor. 

_Someone_. 

When he heard the slight whimpers and halted breaths that proceeded this—the realization came with a painful stab of guilt in his chest. 

Fuck, she was _crying_.

Sirius didn’t think he’d seen or heard his mother cry in—well— _ever_. 

He’d made her cry. He’d reduced her to a sobbing heap on the floor. He hadn’t meant to. 

_Had he?_

Perhaps on some level, he had. After all it was her who had told him he’d killed his father. And whatever his thoughts on Orion Black—fucking hell, his mother telling him that had _hurt_. All the guilt he’d stowed away—the awful questions that had haunted him all those lonely nights in Azkaban—had risen to the surface. 

Her words had stripped him down to his deepest insecurities, masterfully hitting all his weak spots and vulnerabilities in a way that only Walburga Black had ever truly known how to do. Sirius felt just as weak as he had the night that he’d left this damned place. Just as hurt, just as terrified, just as insecure.

He hated it. 

He’d wanted nothing more than to hurt her back, to make her feel just as awful, just as hurt, just as insecure. He knew it was unlikely she’d ever let him see any of his words have an effect on her—Mum had perfected that cold, controlled Black mask in a way he’d never been able to—but even if it stung just a small amount it was worth it.

But—what he’d seen in there just a minute ago.

There was nothing controlled about _that_.

_Perhaps I should’ve expected it_ , he thought, sourly. _Regulus always was her perfect, pampered prince._

Sirius shook his head—he didn’t have the energy to be resentful right now. He felt completely and utterly drained. This fucking place— _damn it_ , it took all the energy out of him in a way even Azkaban hadn’t been able to do. 

At least he could focus on his innocence in Azkaban. 

Being here—looking at the rickety staircases, the rotting wood, the wreck of his father’s legacy—All he could focus on was his guilt. 

A thought crossed his mind, something she’d said that had thrown him off balance for the remainder of that fight. 

_‘YOUR FATHER NEVER DISINHERITED YOU!’_

But—no, it couldn’t be true. That was complete and utter bollocks, he may be the heir now, but before—there’s no way his father wouldn’t have disinherited him, Arcturus wouldn’t have allowed it. And Orion Black was not the kind of man to commit such an oversight. No— _no_ , she must’ve been lying. That was the only explanation for that.

The rest of the things, about breaking his father’s heart, well…Clearly that was—just as ludicrous. They didn’t want him. They never had. 

They _didn’t_.

After a few moments of silent brooding, Sirius walked away from the parlour door, moving to the staircase. Though, he didn’t go downstairs and out the front door (as he bloody well should have). 

Instead, for a reason he couldn’t quite comprehend, he went _up_.

Reaching the fifth and final floor, his eyes fell on what had become of the landing that he and Regulus had shared during their childhood.

It hadn’t been spared from the rest of the disrepair the house was in—though the damage here was far less worse than the drawing-room and the third-floor parlour. Aside from all the dust and some corners of wallpaper peeling—it looked far better than it had any right to after 15 years of being untouched. 

He walked over to the end of the landing—determinedly ignoring the now grimy warning placard on Regulus’s door—until he stopped in front of the entrance to his old bedroom. 

_SIRIUS_

Sirius felt a brief pang of fear—what would it be like? They must’ve taken everything down by now. His posters, his wallpaper, his records, his photographs—all of it. And on top of all that, it would be just as dusty and decrepit as the rest of the house.

It would be different now—damaged, desolate, and forgotten—just like him. 

Was he prepared to face what had become of it? What had become of _him_?

He shook off the apprehension—he’d survived an encounter with his mother—what the hell was a dusty old room going to do?

Turning the brass handle, he pushed open the door—a loud creaking sound coming from the rusted door hinges—and looked at what his room had turned into, only to find…

…Nothing. Nothing had changed.

The wallpaper was still that brash Gryffindor red that he’d charmed it to be when he was thirteen—Faded and peeled like all the others in the house, but undoubtedly the same one. All of his posters were still up—including the Farrah Fawcett one he’d put up in fourth year that always managed to make Regulus blush when he walked in. All his muggle records were still stacked neatly in that cedar shelf that Granny had given him for his ninth birthday. That perpetually loose floorboard next to the davenport still gave a low groan when stepped on. Even his bedding was the same—not only was it the same, but his bed was _made_.

When he’d left his bed was a complete and utter _mess_. Why would they bother to make it again?

Why would they bother to keep any of this up?

Shaking his head, he decided that question could wait. In fact— _all_ the damned questions he had could wait. Right now he didn’t want to discuss his family’s motives for keeping his room the way it was, right now he wanted to _rest_. 

The bedding was a bit dusty, but a quick flick of his wand managed to clear off most of it. 

Flinging off his shoes carelessly into different directions of the room, he settled himself under the covers, feeling the familiar warmth of that damask duvet wash over him—a distant, barely-there feeling of security from the years before Hogwarts settling in. 

For the first time in fourteen years, Sirius slept peacefully. 

* * *

After about an hour of uncontrollable sobbing, Walburga finally gathered herself (and what was left of her dignity) up off the floor, brushing all the dust off her skirts with a flick of her wand. She’d uttered a quick _reparo_ , watching as the 17th-century Chinese vase and the priceless crystal ashtray she’d thrown at her son stitched themselves back together, settling back into their respective places on the side table as if nothing had happened. 

It was then that she realized that—for all the ruckus that Sirius Orion usually made—she hadn’t heard a petulant slam of the front door, nor the sounds of a furious trudge down to the drawing-room chimney. 

She shook off any of those delusions. He’d left—he had to have. Where else would he go? Unless…

It was an _infinitesimally_ small possibility, though she’d never be able to sleep right if she didn’t at least check. 

Slowly walking up the stairs, a loud creak coming with each step, she made her way up to the fifth-floor landing. 

Ignoring the state of disrepair it was in—as well as the painfully adolescent sign on her younger son’s door—she moved to Sirius Orion’s bedroom door only to find, to her shock, that it was slightly ajar. 

Walburga carefully opened the door, eternally grateful that the creaking wasn’t too loud, and when the doorknob finally hit the wall with a slight _thud_ , the picture that greeted her was one that made her heart soar.

It was Sirius. Only, he was sleeping— _peacefully_. He looked so innocent in this state, so calm and unassuming, just like when he was a boy. 

Reaching out with an open palm, she lightly grazed his cheeks with the tip of her fingers. Sirius’s face had grown far too gaunt for a man of only thirty-five—yet, he still looked every inch his father’s son. His hair was the only thing he hadn’t got from Orion—having inherited her own raven color typical of the Blacks, rather than Orion’s mousy Macmillan brown—though other than that, the resemblance between them was _uncanny_. 

Moving her fingers to the stubble on his jaw, Walburga found herself caressing his cheekbones with her thumb, and with every light snore he let out, that familiar maternal protectiveness in her awakened.

Her son. Her _boy_. 

Oh, he’d hurt her—terribly so, both today and all those years he’d spent gallivanting with blood traitors and half-breeds—and yet, he was still her son. Still the infant she’d held in her arms that rainy November day all those years ago. Still the mischievous boy who’d always taken pleasure in finding new ways to aggravate her. Still the sulking teenager who blared that god-awful muggle from behind the closed door of his bedroom. 

He was her first son, and now—she thought, with a horribly painful ache in her chest—her last. He needed to be protected, from Dumbledore and his scheming, from Potter’s misbegotten spawn who was clearly up to no good—but mostly, from _himself_. 

Walburga knew that if he was to be protected, _truly_ protected, he couldn’t be allowed to leave this house. 

No—this world had grown dangerous in the years past, who knew the horrors that would await some brazen, painfully self-sacrificial upstart like Sirius Orion?

However, she couldn’t keep him in here by herself. Especially considering the fact that she’d never heard any of his ill-bred conspirators leave either. 

Giving her boy one last wistful look, she made her way down to the first floor. 

Once she arrived at the foyer, she quickly got to work, constructing a few wards—they wouldn’t be enough to keep him here forever, though they would buy her enough time to do what she needed to do to ensure his stay become more permanent. 

Reaching for the doorknob, and promptly pulling back after feeling an unpleasant shock when her fingers lightly brushed it, she nodded in satisfaction. 

This would do. 

Bustling towards the drawing-room, she brushed past the opened doors, quickly reaching for the floo jar in the chimney, stepping in, and speaking, “Neptune House, Study.”

In a flash of green fire, greeted by the sounds of waves lightly crashing on the shore outside, she found herself in her father’s old study (He hadn’t lived here for ten years, though she could still never truly consider it _hers_ ). 

Quickly, she went to sit behind his desk, summoning some ink and parchment from the cabinets. 

Dipping the hippogriff-feather quill into the jar a bit more forceful than necessary, she began to write. 

_Arcturus,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_Sirius is in Grimmauld Place. I don’t know exactly why, only that he has brought along three other delinquents with him. No doubt it’s something to do with that fool Dumbledore and his pet half-blood._

_He’s currently sleeping, and I’ve put up wards, though I am not so foolish to think that they will be enough to stop him or his underbred accomplices from leaving forever._

_Come as quickly as possible, lest your legacy slips out of your fingers once more._

_Regards,_

_WDB_

Satisfied, Walburga folded the missive, poured some hot wax on the paper, and proudly stamped the black family crest onto it. 

She went to the window, opening it and quickly tying it onto her owl’s leg, the blasted thing hooting indignantly at being woken at such an hour. 

“Do not get snappish with me, Persephone!” Walburga chastised her, sharply. “Lest you want to skip out on your next meal!”

The owl gave her one last indignant hoot, but thankfully, remained silent after that. 

“Take this to Arcturus,” she whispered, “And fast, girl! I’ll give you a big juicy rat should you get there within the hour.”

Persephone blinked, excitedly. Rats always were her weakness. She took flight, eagerly, gliding through the air faster than usual—much to Walburga’s satisfaction. 

She could only pray that the message arrived on time. 

Now, what to do about those miscreants still scuttling about inside of the walls of her ancestral home….

* * *

When Sirius slowly awoke, he found himself wrapped up in some of the most comfortable blankets he’d ever slept in. 

The sun still hadn’t quite risen, but the promise of daybreak lingered just over the horizon, the sky a shade of pale blue.

Wait. 

How could he see the sky? The cave only ever offered some sunlight at best. And…why was he in a blanket?

When his eyes fell on the red wallpaper surrounding him—and his mind finally caught up with the events that had happened less than four hours ago—it was with a jolt that he realized where he was. 

His bedroom. 

He cast off the blankets as if they’d burned him, flinging them off to the floor, and hastily reached for his shoes on opposite ends of the room. 

Really—what the bloody hell was he thinking? Falling asleep on the job—no wonder Dumbledore put him on the sidelines. 

Whatever his mistakes, however, Sirius needed to get out—and quick. If he’d fallen asleep here—that meant his mother could’ve called the authorities.

Or worse, Arcturus. 

He put on his shoes, grabbed his wand, then bolted out of the door, practically flying down the damned stairwell. When he reached the foyer, he was surprised to find Remus, Tonks, and Bill waiting for him there. 

“What are you all still doing here?” He whispered, trying not to rouse his mother from whatever coffin she slept in. 

“We waited in the kitchens,” Remus said, giving Sirius a concerned once-over, to which he scowled. “When we finally came out two hours ago, we tried to open the door, but—“ He pointed to the doorknob, “It shocked us.”

“Really bloody hurts, too,” said Tonks, holding her right hand with a grimace. 

“Some really impressive wards,” Bill cut in, “It’d take me some time to be able to undo them.”

Sirius was sure he could feel his blood turn to ice at this. The crazy bitch had actually put up wards. That meant—oh _fuck_ , she was going to send for someone. 

“Look, break the fucking door down, I don’t care,” Sirius whisper-shouted, eyes darting around the room like a maniac. “Just do whatever it takes—“

“—We’ve tried, Padfoot,” Remus said, patiently (Why the _hell_ was he so bloody calm?!). “The wards deflect all of that. We can’t even apparate, and the floo jar from the drawing room is missing.”

_Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!!!!_

“Remus, please,” Sirius begged, his tone growing more and more panicked, “We need to leave, _now_ —“

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

All the hairs on the back of Sirius’s neck stood up at the familiarly cold voice, and when he turned around, just as he expected—his mother was at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at them with distaste, regality practically oozing from the poise with which she held herself. 

Like a queen surveying her subjects. 

You’d never think she’d broken down in tears and flung a vase at her son’s head barely four hours ago.

“Undo the wards,” Sirius said, trying his best to sound unafraid, “I said undo them!!!”

“No,” came the blasé reply. 

“Damn it—“ he growled, “Moony,” he turned to Remus, “She can’t stop all of us—help me take her down!” 

Remus blinked, looking at him in shock. “Padfoot, she’s a _seventy-year-old woman_ —and your _mother_.”

_I knew I should have brought Moody!_ Sirius thought, dismally.

“I don’t care!” Sirius said, frustratedly running a hand through his hair. “That is not some innocent old lady—she’s a bloody harpy!”

“Oh,” his mother gasped, almost laughably false. “How cruel of you, Sirius Orion! To break into your mother’s home, reduce her to tears, then threaten to stun her into submission?!” Mum pulled out a handkerchief, dramatically blowing her nose.

“Black, she spoke with us,” came Bill’s conciliatory voice. “She’s not going to turn you in—she just wants to talk to Professor Dumbledore, since we—er,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “broke into her house.”

Sirius groaned in despair. Were these people so damned _thick_ that they were falling for his mother’s bloody damsel in distress routine? The woman was quite possibly the farthest thing from that he’d ever met.

Hell, most of the times the damsels were _in_ distress it was because of people like _her!_

“Don’t tell me you contacted Dumbledore, _please_!” 

At the pursed lips and sheepish expressions on his companions’ faces, he let out something that sounded like a half-growl, half-sob.

“She—she hasn’t even fucking lived here for the past ten years!” Sirius sputtered, indignantly. 

“It’s still her house, Sirius,” Remus said, his voice so irritatingly patient he wanted to knock his teeth out. Fucking hell, seeing the danger so clearly before anyone else did, not being able to do shit before it was too late—he felt like the lookout on the bloody _Titanic_.

Sirius snorted, humorlessly. A giant block of ice was ironically the _perfect_ metaphor for Walburga Black.

“Damn it, that does it!” He moved past a dumbstruck Tonks, “I’m getting that floo to work one way or another!”

Sirius stomped over to the drawing-room, hearing the steps of his companions right behind him—along with another sound of light, well-bred taps on the hardwood floor that proceeded them.

He almost slid over to the fireplace in his haste, but thankfully caught himself on the mantel in time. 

Scanning the room for any hint of where she might have put the damn floo powder, he began rummaging through every cabinet he could find, tossing out all the miscellaneous dark magic shit they were filled with in an effort to discover where she’d hid it.

“Sirius Orion,” came the more familiar, authoritative tone from his mother that he was used to. “You will stop this foolishness at once. You are not leaving until Dumbledore gets here.”

Just as he was about to tell her where she and Dumbledore could promptly fuck off to, he was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. 

“The wards,” he whispered, wondering if perhaps they’d finally worn off. 

His mother, of course, dashed those hopes immediately, with a self-satisfied grin.

“They only work from the inside. That must be Dumbledore…or your grandfather.”

_Oh, just fucking shoot me already._

A set of light, fast steps followed this, so thankfully it wasn’t his bloody mummy of a grandfather—as the sounds of his cane and his slow, measured steps always preceded his arrival. 

Dumbledore, he could speak with. Dumbledore he could _reason_ with. Hopefully, get him convinced to let him the fuck out of here and obliviate his insane shrew of a mother. 

The person who appeared in the doorway, however, was not Dumbledore. 

It was...someone he hadn’t seen in twenty years. 

Someone who was supposed to be _dead_.

Why the _fuck_ was he seeing so many dead people lately?

This was it. _Now_ , he'd officially gone 'round the twist.

At least, that's what he _thought,_ until his mother let out a shuddering breath from behind him and backed away slowly, whispering, “Alphard?”

Sirius had thought the same, but upon further inspection, it couldn’t be Uncle Alphard. This man’s face was decidedly softer than Alphard’s, his hair was longer than Alphard’s had ever been—reaching just past his ears— and he looked to be about twenty years younger than Alphard was when he’d died. 

It was when the man's eyes widened at the name that Sirius realized who it really was. 

Those eyes—those weren’t Alphard’s—Alphard had inherited the bright blue eyes of Sirius’s Crabbe grandmother. However, this man’s eyes were also his grandmother’s.

Just a different one.

The warm, deep brown eyes of Melania Macmillan.

The same ones that his brother had.

“Regulus?” Sirius whispered, his mouth agape. 

His mother gasped behind him, putting a hand to her mouth, and when he turned to her he saw the realization blossom in her eyes.

Regulus appeared to snap out of his own shock as he gulped, scratched the back of his head awkwardly, and spoke. 

“Er..." He grimaced, "...Hello.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to any Italian readers, I hope I did your language justice, (or that it was at least passable considering I lived in Rome for four years), but if I didn't, I humbly apologize lmao.  
> This one came much sooner than thought, hope you all enjoy!  
> Please leave a comment as I am a sucker for those, and if y'all want to chat with me/ask me something on Tumblr, don't hesitate:  
> https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus deals with the fallout from his return, Sirius is given his toughest order assignment yet, and Arcturus dreams of ghosts from his past.

** _April 7, 1912_ **

_Arcturus was—to put it quite simply—bored._

_Hogwarts had been cleared out mid-term because of a supposed pack of werewolves gathering in and around the forbidden forest. The headmaster—or, rather, Arcturus’s grandfather, Phineas Nigellus—had decided it would be best to close the school for the time being whilst the proper authorities figured out how to remedy the situation. ’Lest any of the undesirables already enrolled here somehow become even more repugnant’, Grandfather had said._

_Father was also in one of his more pensive, sober moods as of late, so he was more competent than usual—since he could speak in complete sentences—which meant that Arcturus didn’t need to spend the day fussing over his siblings like a damned matron, or watch over his father to make sure he didn’t fall asleep in any odd places with a bottle in hand._

_That had almost happened last week. Though he’d stopped it, he’d almost wished he’d left the bastard on the divan in the drawing room—the drunken nonsense he’d spouted had left Arcturus even more furious than he’d been when he’d found him._

_After a trudge up to his room—which, thankfully, due to Arcturus being unusually tall for his age, was relatively painless as he could easily put his father’s arm over his shoulder and guide him up the stairs—he’d flung him down onto the bed, only for father to grab his hand when he turned away and slur out some barely coherent drivel._

_“My boy,” he’d said, smiling wistfully, “You look so like your lovely mother, d-did you know that?”_

_He’d only been told it a thousand times._

_“She was so beautiful—but so delicate, my Hesper was…” his face had fallen then, and promptly twisted in grief, “I—I killed her….I should’ve…I should’ve brought in the healers sooner…” he let out a choked sob, “It’s my fault…It’s all my fault…”_

_Arcturus had felt a distinct pinprick behind his eyes then, and he cursed his father for it. His nonsense had unnerved him so much he’d fished around his pocket for his wand and promptly cast a sleeping hex on him to stop any further self-pitying drivel from pouring out._

_He refused to feel sympathy for him. Father had paid them barely any mind after mother had died, why should he not give him the same treatment?_

_Still—though he’d loathed putting his father to bed like he was an errant toddler and not a man of almost forty, he couldn’t say he regretted it. God forbid Lycoris or Regulus happened upon him in such a state._

_They still believed their father to be admirable and strong._

_Arcturus wouldn’t take that from them._

_He still lamented the fact that it had been taken from himself._

_Shaking his head at the memory in an effort to get it out of his mind, he focused his gaze back on the muggles outside his window. They usually proved to be a suitable distraction._

_It was rather like watching animals at the zoo—these primitive beings, so trapped in a cage of their own mediocrity. Arcturus wondered how they even managed to get out of bed in the morning, for what on earth could they do without magic?_

_According to Uncle Phineas, quite a lot. Though he still couldn’t believe that._

_Anubis—the black eagle that Uncle Cygnus had given him for his eleventh birthday—cawed indignantly at the fact that he had abruptly stopped petting him, though Arcturus fixed him with a stern glare that got him to back down, albeit a tad more hesitantly than he would’ve liked._

_Anubis respected him, because—unlike father—he understood that those beneath him had to be firmly brought to heel at the first sign of impertinence._

_As one of those abominable contraptions (was it a Ford?) came sputtering down Grimmauld Place, he sneered._

_How crude—a death trap made of steel as a mode of transport—had these savages never heard of a broom?_

_Oh—that’s right—they used brooms for cleaning._

_Imbeciles._

_He was snapped out of his boredom when he saw a familiar face he hadn’t seen in months approaching the house outside._

_Uncle Phineas._

_Arcturus furrowed his brow in confusion. Uncle Phineas wasn’t supposed to be visiting today—well, according to the scorch mark on the tree where his name should have been, he wasn’t supposed to be visiting_ ever _, but most of the family were far too sentimental and weak to fully let go of their wayward son—still, it was odd._

_He quickly stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers, and made his way out of his room and down the grand staircase, only to be greeted by a familiar impish smile._

_“Archie!” He said, arms outstretched._

_Before Arcturus could tell him that embracing was only for infants and old women—a familiar black-haired wisp of a girl came sprinting down the stairs, and jumped into his Uncle’s arms._

_“Uncle!” Lycoris hollered, eagerly wrapping her arms around his neck._

_“Corey!” Phineas let out a bark of a laugh, “My, my, dearest—you’ve grown quite a bit since last I saw you!”_

_“I learned how to sing that song from the cylinder you gave me, uncle!”_

_Phineas's eyes widened, playfully. “My, did you really? Well it looks as if we have a regular Sophie Tucker on our hands, now don’t we?”_

_“You know I don’t approve of you giving her those muggle songs, Uncle,” Arcturus cut in, annoyed. Lycoris certainly_ had _learned that song—learnt it so well in fact that she never tired of singing the damned thing—If he had to hear about Josephine and her flying machine one more bloody time he would throw himself out the window._

_Phineas rolled his eyes, impudently._

_“Yes, well—forgive me for corrupting your sister with my ways, Archie—If she learns how to sing vaudeville what’s next,” he gasped, theatrically, “Ragtime?”_

_Arcturus couldn’t help the upward twitch of his lip at this—Damn it all, the bastard could charm the tusks off an elephant—and Uncle Phineas appeared to notice it too, as he smiled back._

_“I can’t help but notice,” Phineas made a show of looking around the foyer, “that my youngest nephew is missing.”_

_“Regulus is in his room, reading—as always.”_

_Phineas snorted, drolly. “How surprising,” he put Lycoris back on the ground, “Well, as charmed as I am by my reception, I have something to discuss with your father—Archie, you as well.”_

_Arcturus blinked, surprised. “Me? What could you possibly have to discuss with me and Father?”_

_Phineas smiled, cryptically. “You’ll see, just follow me.”_

_Arcturus huffed, pettishly—though did as he was asked and followed him to the study._

_When they arrived, the door was already halfway open, and he saw his father—slouched over his desk reading the prophet, and looking distinctly tired and downcast—meaning that he’d either had very little to drink today or none._

_“Sirius,” Phineas greeted, nodding curtly._

_Father looked up from his desk, blinking in confusion, “Phineas? I didn’t expect you today—I thought you’d still be in Belfast.”_

_“I was, I just got in last night and thought I’d pay a visit.”_

_Father nodded, “Oh, yes—how good of you. Please,” he waved his hand, “Take a seat.”_

_After a few minutes of pleasantries that Arcturus couldn’t care less for—he always wondered why it was people could never get to the damned point before bypassing several layers of meaninglessly polite drivel—Father finally asked what it was Phineas was here for._

_“Well,” Phineas said, tapping his fingers on the armrest, “I must confess my motives weren’t entirely altruistic,” he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, “You see, Sirius, I’ve come here because I’ll be going on a trip—for business.”_

_Father furrowed his brow, “A trip? To where?”_

_“New York. I’ll be going by ship—three days from now.”_

_Arcturus frowned. A ship? For business? How odd—true, wizards used ships to travel sometimes, though most of the time it was for leisure rather than necessity—as one could simply take a portkey across the Atlantic. However nauseous it made you feel, it got the job done far quicker than a bloody ship._

_“And,” Phineas continued, “I wanted to take Arcturus with me.”_

_Arcturus almost thought he was referring to his uncle Arcturus, until he saw Phineas’s eyes on him, an expectant look on his face._

_“Wha—Me?” Arcturus said, bewildered. “Why me?”_

_“We rarely get any time just the two of us these days—and now that Father’s shut down the school for the time being, it’s a perfect opportunity. Besides,” Phineas grinned, playfully, “Is it so impossible I want to spend some time with my eldest nephew? ”_

_“Yes,” Arcturus replied, deadpan._

_“Archie,” Father chastised him, though there wasn’t any real strength behind it—as per usual._

_Father turned to Phineas, confused frown still in place, “Well—school is shut down for the time being, so—I suppose you can take him if you want to—“_

_“—That’s not all,” Phineas rushed to say, appearing to steel himself for something unpleasant, “It’s—well, the ship that is—a muggle ship.”_

_“What?!” Father and son chorused—father bewildered, whilst Arcturus was more disgusted._

_Phineas held his hands out, defensively. “Now, now—It’s one of the ships I was telling you about—the big ones, that I’ve put some money into.”_

_Arcturus remembered that. Father had cautioned against investing into muggle endeavors—as the risk outweighed the reward—though Phineas had done so anyway, putting in quite a bit of gold into some ship—The Simplistic? Olympus? He couldn’t remember the infernal name. Either way, it had—by some miracle—paid off, and Phineas had earned back the money he invested thrice over from that little gamble._

_“But—why?” Father asked, “I can understand earning money from it—but to actually sail on…_ that _? What on earth does this,” he waved his hand around, “thing have that magical ships don’t?”_

_Phineas scoffed, “She’s only the most luxurious ship to ever exist—yes, even including magical ships. Her maiden voyage will undoubtedly be a historical event. Besides,” He smirked, “Since I’ve invested quite a bit of money into this, it’s only natural I sail with her.”_

_“Didn’t you say that about the other one last year?” Arcturus asked, skeptically._

_Phineas let out a dismissive snort, “This one outdoes her sister in every way—trust me.”_

_Father looked up from his hands, his face set in a pensive frown. “Is it…safe?”_

_Phineas laughed, “Of course it’s bloody safe. Damn thing’s practically unsinkable.”_

_Father tipped his head in acknowledgment, though he still looked skeptical. “I don’t know, Phineas. I don’t hold any of your—“ he scrunched up his nose, “—principles against you, though when it comes to my son, it’s a different matter.”_

_“Trust me, Sirius,” Phineas took out a newspaper, and Arcturus found himself oddly unsettled at how the photographs didn’t move. “Look,” he unfolded it, “Read about her for yourself.”_

_Father grimaced in distaste at the muggle newspaper, but nonetheless began reading, his eyebrows raising every few lines._

_At last, he put down the paper._

_“Well, it’s certainly impressive—“_

_“—She,” cut in Phineas, smugly._

_Father’s lip twitched, amusedly. “She is certainly impressive. Almost unbelievable that the muggles managed to pull such a thing off.”_

_“Well they did. A credit to their people, I say.”_

_Father nodded, “If you say so.” He looked down at his hands, frowning at their distinct emptiness, before lifting himself up from the table and walking over to the liquor cart._

_So much for a dry day._

_Phineas looked over at him with pity, before clearing his throat and addressing father, “Is that wise, Sirius? It’s barely noon, after all.”_

_Father turned his head slightly, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just have a slight tickle in my throat, that’s all. Besides,” he smiled, “When did one glass ever hurt anyone?”_

_Many times, Arcturus thought, furiously._

_Many times._

_“Well,” Father sat back down, glass in his hand. “I say it’s fine by me. But, it’s your choice, Arcturus. I won’t force you to go if you don’t want to.”_

_Arcturus was about to tell him that of course, he didn’t want to go, of course, he would never disgrace himself and his name so by gallivanting across the Atlantic on some filthy muggle contraption._

_But as his father put the glass to his lips, sighing in contentment at the first taste of brandy, he could only think of another week playing parent to both his siblings, another week of pressures and duties and tasks he barely had any energy to do, another damned week of watching out for father’s unconscious body draped over a random piece of furniture._

_Hogwarts had always provided a sort of respite. He was separated from all the stresses of home there, and while he worried for his siblings—as well as made sure to keep correspondences with their governesses, lest they get too soft with them—he didn’t have to deal with all of that stress directly. He didn’t have to watch as father stumbled around the house every day with a glass of brandy in his hand. Now, though, with it closing down mid-term, that respite was gone._

_And he didn’t want it to be. Not yet._

_It was selfish of him to think such things, he knew it was. And he didn’t even want to go on what—as far as he was concerned—was nothing more than a gilded oversized canoe, but he knew he didn’t want to be here._

_Besides, blood traitor he might have been—Uncle Phineas was fun, damn it. Even he couldn’t deny a few weeks spent with him would be highly entertaining, muggle ship be damned._

_It was only one journey—as he would absolutely make sure they booked return passage on a respectable, wizard-operated liner—what was the worst that could happen?_

_He looked up from his lap, decision made, “I would be glad to go.”_

* * *

** June 29th, 1995 **

A repeated tapping woke Arcturus from his slumber. He propped himself up on his elbows, huffing in annoyance.

How odd—he hadn’t dreamt of Phineas in years. 

Instinctively, he turned to the right side of the bed in order to—as any dutiful husband would—check if the racket had also woken up Melania, only to be confronted, yet again, with a perpetually empty space. 

He frowned, shaking his head, and as he was about to go back to bed, the incessant tapping returned.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he squinted to catch a view of what the damned racket was that had woken him up at— _Oh, Salazar’s sake,_ he cursed, eyeing his bedside clock, _five in the damned morning_ —only to see a familiar tawny owl at the window. 

Walburga. 

Damn it all to hell—if he’d been roused from his slumber because this lunatic had another harebrained theory on where Sirius could have gone off to, he’d kill her himself.He reached for his cane—as always, leaning faithfully on the nightstand—and, groaning, he pushed himself onto his feet. He walked over to the window, opening it and glowering at the owl. 

Arcturus snatched the missive out of her beak, “Leave, there’s nothing for you here.” 

The blasted thing hooted indignantly, but ultimately had the intelligence to fly away. 

Quite similar to Walburga herself.

He took a seat on the nook by the window and opened up the letter with a single genteel _rip_. 

Frowning at the darkness, he turned on the gas lamp beside him so he could actually read the damned thing. 

_Arcturus,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_Sirius is in Grimmauld Place. I don’t know exactly why, only that he has brought along three other delinquents with him. No doubt it’s something to do with that fool Dumbledore and his pet half-blood._

_He’s currently sleeping, and I’ve put up wards, though I am not so foolish to think that they will be enough to stop him or his underbred accomplices from leaving forever._

_Come as quickly as possible, lest your legacy slip out of your fingers once more._

_Regards,_

_WDB_

Ignoring the impertinent remark at the end of the missive, he reread it three times just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, and each time he reread it he felt more furious. But, Sirius—in Grimmauld Place? How? Why?

No—no, it couldn’t be. Even he wouldn’t be so simple as to dare to step foot in Number Twelve. Walburga must have been deep in her cups again, or she’d gone mad—or both. Whatever Arcturus felt for his grandson, even he could acknowledge Sirius was at least competent enough not to something so ill-advised.

Then again, the whelp had escaped from Azkaban _three weeks_ before his trial, so perhaps not. 

No—now that he thought about it—this sounded _exactly_ like the kind of nonsense Sirius would pull.

The impudent little _worm_.

He crushed the letter with his right hand—digging his nails into his palm with such a seething rage that when he looked down he noticed he’d drawn a few drops of blood.

“Pernie!” Arcturus barked. 

A quick ‘pop’ followed this, and his faithful house-elf appeared before him, bowing so deeply her nose brushed against the carpet. 

“Yes, Master Arcturus?” 

“Draw me a bath,” he commanded, imperiously. “And lay out a set of robes for me.”

He stared into the fireplace across the room, narrowing his eyes at the dying embers.

“…I need to pay a social call.”

* * *

Bill Weasley had always prided himself on his ability to suss out a person’s true motives. One needed to be able to read between the lines working with creatures like Goblins, after all. When he came upon Mrs. Black, however, he’d only seen what she allowed them to—a lovely, (almost impossibly beautiful) old woman, handkerchief in hand, sniffling over her son’s return, shaking in fear at what she thought were vagrants breaking into her home. She’d been angrier when he’d first encountered her, but it was easy to forget with the convincing way in which she wailed and moaned with the order members to summon Dumbledore to answer for their mistake. All Bill thought Mrs. Black to be was a fragile old woman.

Now, however, he was thoroughly disabused of those notions. 

“LET GO OF ME, SIRIUS ORION!” Mrs. Black screamed, arms flailing wildly in an attempt to launch herself at her younger son—held back only by her eldest’s arms around her waist.

“Mum, for God’s sake—“ Sirius said, though he was swiftly cut off by a string of profanities unleashed by his mother—about half of which Bill had never heard before.

“You’re going to hurt him, Mum—“

“And why shouldn’t I?! After what he pulled—he damn well deserves it!!”

“Mother—“ Sirius’s younger brother said, arms outstretched—Bill hadn’t quite caught his name—“Please, let me explain—“

“EXPLAIN WHAT?!” Mrs. Black shouted back, still struggling in vain to get out of her eldest’s grip, “HOW YOU ABANDONED YOUR FAMILY, MADE US THINK YOU DEAD?! HOW ON EARTH COULD YOU EXPLAIN THAT?!”

Sirius’s younger brother shrank back at the rebuke, trying to back away from his fuming mother (It looked like Sirius wouldn’t be able to hold her back much longer), though, as flustered as he was, he tried to reason with his mother anyway. “Mother, eh—Kreacher—“

“KREACHER WHAT?!”

The scream was followed by a swift ‘pop’ and a wrinkly house-elf appearing in the middle of them. 

The elf looked confused at his surroundings, until he laid his eyes on Sirius’s brother and his eyes went wide as dinner plates, “Master Regulus?” he croaked, sounding close to tears.

When Sirius’s—Regulus—nodded, the elf promptly burst into tears, launching himself at his master’s feet and repeatedly wailing, “Master Regulus is _home_! Master Regulus is home— _Oh, how Kreacher worried for him so, but Kreacher knew he would return_ —and master _has_!”

“YOU _KNEW_?!” Mrs. Black screeched, and when the elf turned to his mistress he appeared to realize the full extent of the situation, as his breath hitched in his throat. “YOU _KNEW_ HE WAS ALIVE AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?”

The elf promptly threw himself at the sofa in the corner, out of what looked to be a mixture of both fear and intense guilt, “Oh, Mistress, please forgive Kreacher—Kreacher was ordered not to say anything—He could never disobey his master’s orders!” 

She appeared even more outraged at the explanation, her face going a deep shade of purple.

“I AM YOUR _MISTRESS_ YOU DISLOYAL LITTLE GUTTER RAT! YOU ANSWER ONLY TO _ME_!”

“Oh,” the elf wailed, “Mistress must understand, Kreacher could not say anything, no matter how he wished to do so even when Mistress had gone mad with grie—“

“—YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH—YOU AWFUL, TRAITOROUS _SCUM_!!”

Kreacher was reduced to sobs from the rebuke, wrapping his spindly arms around the chair. “Oh, how awful Kreacher is, how awful indeed!” He began hitting his head forcefully against the wooden armrest, berating himself all the way through. 

“Mother, please!” Regulus pleaded, waving his arms about frantically, “Make him stop, he didn’t—“

“ _STOP?!_ The damn thing can throw himself into the fire for all I care!”

Kreacher—to Bill’s horror—appeared to take his mistress’s angry rants seriously, as he began slowly waddling toward the fire, pleading for his mistress’s forgiveness all the way through—snot and tears running down his weathered old face.

“OH, MISTRESS _PLEASE_ , OH _FORGIVE_ KREACHER!”

As Bill took in the scene before him—Sirius still holding his mother back from attacking Regulus, Regulus pleading to both Kreacher and Mrs. Black to stop, all of them screaming at the top of their lungs—only one thought ran through his mind.

What the bloody hell is wrong with these people?

Mrs. Black, meanwhile, had pulled her elbow back and hit Sirius in the groin, causing him to double over in pain with a muffled _‘bollocks’_ —and releasing her from his grip. She took off an earring, and waved it at the elf—and when Kreacher realized that she was going to give it to him to release him from his servitude, he began running around the room to avoid the earring, frantically ducking and jumping—to which Mrs. Black gave chase. 

The scene was disconcerting for two reasons _—_ one, the elf had no qualms about throwing himself into a fire but now appeared terrified of being freed _—_ and two, it uncannily resembled a muggle animation about a cat and a mouse Tonks had shown him once. 

Regulus—shocked as he was—appeared to snap out of it long enough to stretch his arms out and stop his mother from her pursuit, allowing Kreacher to scurry off to another part of the house and hide.

“Mother,” Regulus put a hand on her shoulder, placatingly. “Please,let me—“ 

He was cut off by a forceful, loud slap to the face that sent him hurtling towards the floor. 

He looked up at Mrs. Black, eyes widened in shock and clutching his no doubt flaming cheek. She appeared as if she was going to say something for a short second, but then huffed in anger and promptly exited the room—loudly stomping up the stairs. 

It was only when she had gone that he noticed a man had been standing there for some time—dressed in a fine set of black robes holding a hickory cane, graying black hair, bushy mustache, his eyes a familiar shade of ghostly grey. 

He looked at Regulus lying on the floor with an expression of sheer shock for a few seconds, but then his face went a deep shade of red—to which Regulus paled—and he promptly stomped over to him, grabbing the younger man by the scruff of his collar as if he were an errant pup—and dragging him towards the fireplace with his free hand. 

The old man took a floo jar out of his frock coat, wordlessly placing a pinch into Regulus’s open hand. 

“Go to Noire House,” he grit out, “Wait for me in the study. And don’t even _think_ of absconding, boy—” he pulled out a black wand from Regulus’s jacket—and the younger man looked too afraid to even care. “With the wards and the hunting hounds—you won’t get very far without a wand.”

Regulus—to Bill’s surprise—paled even further, looking damn near translucent, and nodded his understanding. 

He stepped into the fireplace, meekly whispering _‘Noire House’_ —and was gone in a flash of green fire.

The man then turned to the four of them—Sirius, still lying in a fetal position on the floor, looked fit to wet himself at his presence. 

“Well, well,” the old man drawled, “If it isn’t my _beloved_ grandson.”

_Oh._

_Why the hell did Sirius think this house would be easy to steal if most of his bloody family was still alive?_

Sirius straightened his face and shakily brought himself up off the floor.

“Arc—“ he gulped, “Grandfather.” 

Sirius’s grandfather merely sneered. “I see your mother was telling the truth after all. You really were softheaded enough to break into Grimmauld Place.”

Sirius tried to put on a brave face—but even Bill could see how much he was shaking. “Listen—“

“—I suppose that fool Dumbledore put you up to this. _My grandson_ ,” he scoffed, coldly. “Forever the lapdog to that libertine dastard.”

Sirius appeared to regain some of his courage at the insult to their headmaster, but before he could say anything that would put his granddad’s back up, Lupin cut in. 

“Dumbledore didn’t send us here, sir,” he appeared to shrink back slightly when Mr. Black’s glare fell on him, “We came of our own volition.”

The older man's eyes narrowed, “I should like to hear this from the man himself. I have some—”he let out an angry huff, “— _grievances_ to address with him, either way.”

“We’ve already sent for him, sir.”

Mr. Black blinked, then nodded curtly. “And when will he be arriving?”

“He said a quarter to nine.”

He took out a pocket watch from his coat, peering at it intently. “Right now it is— _half-past seven_. Perfect, all the time I need to see to his brother.”

Sirius stepped forward, a surprisingly brazen act considering his earlier fearfulness. “If you hurt him—“

Mr. Black laughed, a sharp, pitiless sound. “As much as it touches me to see that the spirit of brotherly love is still alive in this family,” his words dripped with cutting sarcasm, “It is not your place to question what I do and don’t do with my grandson. You included,” he pulled his hand back, and backhanded Sirius with a surprising amount of strength, as the younger man barreled towards the floor. 

Lupin and Tonks crouched down to help Sirius, though Bill remained glued to his spot, his jaw slack from the shock of the scene before him. 

Mr. Black looked down at his grandson as if he was an insect, “ _That_ , is only a modicum of what’s to come for you, my boy. Rest assured, your brother is not the only one who will suffer the consequences of his foolishness. I shall see you in an hour. Oh,” he smiled thinly, “Just to make sure you and your clown troupe don’t get any ideas,” he reached in his jacket pocket—and before Bill could comprehend what was about to happen, he gave a lazy flick of his wand, somehow disarming the four of them in one fell swoop. 

He pocketed all four wands, appearing to relish the gobsmacked looks on all their faces, then promptly turned to the fireplace, dropped a pinch of floo powder, and disappeared in a flash of green fire. 

Sirius let out a miserable groan, putting his head into his hands.

“Oh, look what you’ve done now— _you fucking idiot._ ”

* * *

Regulus shrank back at yet another screaming tirade from his grandfather, trying his best to disappear into the plush leather sofa. 

“—THE DISRESPECT, THE FOOLHARDINESS, THE GALL!! WHAT KIND OF IDIOCY WAS GOING THROUGH YOUR HEAD WHEN YOU DECIDED TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS?!”

Before Regulus could answer, he was cut off by another furious barrage of words.

“YOUR LITTLE STUNT DESTROYED US—YOU BLOODY MORON—I ALMOST HAD TO HAND THIS,” He flourished his hand at his study dramatically, “TO THE MALFOYS—THE _MALFOYS_!”

Grandfather was breathing heavily now—the vein in his forehead looking fit to burst, but he ultimately sighed tiredly and took a seat at his desk, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the hilt of his cane. 

The next word Grandfather uttered was one he never expected to hear from him.

“Why?”

Regulus was surprised at the tone, he sounded far more exhausted and tired than he'd ever heard the man sound. The previous feelings of fear and apprehension were replaced by a smattering of guilt.

“I—“ he swallowed, “I did it to protect you.”

Grandfather blinked, then his face reddened again, “And how exactly was destroying everything I—everything _your father_ —spent decades building protecting us?!”

Regulus flinched, before shaking his head miserably, “I didn’t mean to—“

“—to what?” Arcturus asked, baring his teeth. “Destroy our legacy? Rob your mother of her last son barely two months after your father’s death?”

Now the guilt really was too much to bear—Regulus hadn’t _been_ thinking about that. He wanted to protect his family from the Dark Lord—from his betrayal—he didn’t think about anything beyond their safety from the Death eaters.

Truth be told, he didn’t think they would _care_. It was so plain to see they wanted Sirius anyway. He was the spare—the consolation prize. With him gone, they could finally bring Sirius back into the fold. They’d have no choice.

Or so he’d thought. 

After Sirius’s imprisonment, he had almost returned. The Dark Lord was dead, after all—his Horcrux destroyed. There was nothing stopping him from going back and assuming his rightful place. But after his initial disbelief that Sirius at the assertion that Sirius had betrayed the Potters and worked with the Dark Lord—came the familiar feelings of inadequacy. 

Even Sirius had made a better death eater than he had. 

He’d joined to impress his family—to restore honor to the name of Black, as Bellatrix put it. If he thought being a death eater would live up their expectations, wouldn’t Sirius have already surpassed those expectations? Wouldn’t he have honored them? 

Would they be proud of Sirius? If they were, then what would they think of _him_? 

He would be a rogue. A turncoat. A coward. He’d be a blood-traitor, an embarrassment, a stain on their name—and then, a scorch mark on the tapestry. 

Regulus labored over this day-and-night for months, tossing and turning. He always had one foot out of the door, ready to catch the next train out of Appia should he choose to return. 

He had made his choice after hearing something he wasn't supposed to in Rome.

_Regulus scratched his head, trying his best to focus on the menu before him rather than how red his scalp must be._

_While the blonde hair dye was incredibly irritating, Regulus felt far more comfortable in disguise here. The Roman arithmancy conference he was attending attracted all sorts of people from the world over—best not to take any chances and come as he was._

_“You know Sirius Black?” said a deep voice, thick cockney accent easily discernible._

_Regulus’s ears perked up at this. He focused his eyes on his menu in an effort to look nonchalant while he listened to the conversation._

_“Course I do, everyone and their mother does, what about ‘im?” replied his companion, taking a loud sip from his cappuccino._

_“My uncle works at the ministry, right? Well get this—“ Regulus could hear the sound of the man’s chair scraping the floor as he leaned in, “His granddad and his mum have been going there all the time, asking for a meeting with old Crouch—apparently they’re trying to get ‘im out.”_

_Regulus couldn’t help the sharp gasp that escaped him, though he covered it with a cough right after so as not to look suspicious._

_“Bollocks,” said the other man, his tone surprised. “But—he killed them muggles—he worked for you-know-‘oo, everyone knows that!”_

_“Yeah well, you know the Blacks,” came the shrugging voice of the other man, “They’ve always been into all that seedy, dark magic shit. That’s probably the reason they want ‘im out in the first place—give ‘im a hero’s welcome back ‘ome and all ‘o that.”_

_Regulus felt the knot in his stomach tighten at the man’s words. Of course, it was logical for them to try and get him out. He was all they had left now—barring himself. But he couldn't help but feel that what the man said was true. If Sirius truly had switched loyalties, then he would have done right by them and their legacy._

_If Sirius had done right in their eyes...then he knew how they'd react to his own deeds._

_It looked as if his choice had been made for him._

Arcturus’s harsh voice snapped him out of his reverie. 

“Ey, boy? Answer me!”

Regulus hadn’t intended to tell anyone about the Horcruxes—not until he was sure Dumbledore wouldn’t simply run with the information without offering protection for his family and clemency for himself as well as Sirius—but Arcturus was not Dumbledore, nor a member of Sirius’s order. 

Not to mention he was too bloody terrified to even think of lying to the man. 

So, in halting tones and far too many nervous stutters for his grandfather’s liking, he told him everything. What the Dark Lord had asked Kreacher for, what happened when Kreacher had come home, his research into the Horcruxes, his subsequent guilt and desire to atone, the final task that was meant to absolve him as well as mark the end of his life—and of course, the fact that Kreacher had taken his order to go home and found a loophole, apparating to Grimmauld Place for a few seconds before promptly going back and pulling him out of the water. 

Arcturus had listened to it all with a blank face, disrupting his staring with the occasional sneer, but ultimately the words he’d ended up saying after all this were ones Regulus would have never thought to hear from his grandfather.

“I was wrong.” 

Regulus blinked, owlishly. “W-what?”

“Sirius wasn’t the biggest clod in this family after all,” Regulus flushed in embarrassment, “I thought you at least had some sense about you, but alas—those notions have now been thoroughly disabused as I have just learned you almost got yourself killed over a damn house-elf.”

Arcturus sighed in frustration, running a hand over his face. “Nevertheless, your return—and what you’ve just told me—changes things quite a bit. It appears my strategy with how to deal with that eccentric will have to change.” 

Regulus cleared his throat, hoping his voice didn’t fail him, “And—and me, sir?”

“What about you?”

He swallowed, “I was just—er—wondering what you plan to do with me?”

Arcturus stared at him for what felt like an eternity before speaking, “You will stay at Grimmauld Place with your brother—and you will be locked inside for however long I see fit,” He stood up with a groan, signaling the end of the audience, “Your time running about and masquerading as some damned Italian is at an end. Be grateful all you got was a slap on the wri—,” he grimaced, mockingly, “well, perhaps not the best turn of phrase considering I can practically read your mother’s fortunes off your cheek.”

Arcturus took out his pocket watch, clucking his tongue. “Well—would you look at the time? The audience with Dumbledore is in five minutes—we’d best be off.”

Regulus furrowed his brow, “Will I be attending, sir?”

“No—you will go to your room and stay there until further notice. I shall speak more with you on your…discoveries tomorrow. Right now I need to go deal with my other idiot grandson.”

Regulus nodded in deference, oddly finding the harsh scolding more favorable than the past praise he’d received from his parents. At least this was truly about him and his own actions—not just some heavy-handed attempt to get Sirius to improve. 

“Now,” his grandfather signaled to the fireplace, “Get back to Grimmauld Place—I’m right behind you, whelp, so don’t try anything foolish.”

Regulus moved to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of floo powder, spoke the address, and promptly found himself back in the drawing-room of Grimmauld Place, being eyed by both Sirius and—to his surprise—his former headmaster with shock. 

He gave Sirius a sympathetic nod—though his brother simply kept staring at him as if he was a mythical creature. He opened his mouth to say something, but he felt Arcturus whack the back of his calves with his cane in a clear attempt to get him out, so he ducked his head and exited the room.

Coming upon the foyer, Regulus remembered that most of the Black Family portraits would’ve been awake at this hour, which would no doubt cause a stir that he wanted to very much avoid. Trying his best to lessen the sound of his footsteps, he tiptoed up the stairs _—_ holding in his breath all the while.

“So it’s true then,” came the smirking voice of young Ophelia Black’s portrait, “Poor Regulus, gone before his time, has returned.”

Regulus grimaced—Damn it, could his luck be any worse today?

Ophelia looked quite pleased at the uneasiness on his expression, smiling like a dog who’d been given her old chew toy back. This portrait had always taken pleasure in teasing him as a boy—he had no idea how Queen Mary put up with such an insolent lady in waiting. 

“You put your mama through quite an ordeal, you know. All that screaming and those healers flitting about used to wake me up quite often.”

He furrowed his brow in confusion—screams, healers? What—

“I suspect she’ll be punishing you very harshly for that cruel mummer’s farce.”

He heard a distinctly masculine snort, only to see Canopus Black—the man who saved the family from sure ruin in the 18th century—sneering down at him. “Judging from the fact that I can make out the engraving of her signet ring on his cheek, the punishment’s already begun.”

She giggled, “Yes, well—“

“And judging by the way your cheeks are devoid of any color,” he interrupted her, paying no mind to the annoyed expression on her face, “your grandpapa must have scolded you something fierce.”

“And I can’t help but notice—“

“—Oh hush, Canopus,” she cut in, “I haven’t teased the boy in years, let me have this.”

Canopus turned his sneer to her, “I am not someone to be ordered around by a foolish chit who got herself killed in some drunken horse race.”

Ophelia scoffed at the reference to her less-than-graceful end, before smiling condescendingly in that way that always got her neighboring portrait’s back up, “Careful when speaking to your elders, great-great-nephew.”

Canopus let out an incredulous huff, “You are not my elder, you impertinent little—“

“—Now, now,” came the voice of Monoceros Black, head of the (now extinct) Protestant branch of the family. “I think the both of you ought to calm yourselves before—“

“—Silence, _Protestant_.” Canopus interrupted, leveling Monoceros with the look one would give to a particularly annoying insect. 

Monoceros sighed, “Really, Canopus, must we resort to all that—“

“I’d sooner listen to her,” he nodded over at Ophelia, “than some wretch who follows the whims of a drunken lecher over the word of God.”

“ _Drunken lecher?_ ” Monoceros gasped, incredulously. “Oh, _fie_ on you, Canopus Black! King Henry was a most honorable man—“

“—Ha!” Ophelia let out an indignant laugh, “ _Honorable_? That perverted old walrus once pinched my backside, leaned into my ear, and told me he wanted to make me _‘number seven_ ’!”

“Oh, you’re telling tales as always, Ophelia—“

“—I doubt you’d know, Monoceros,” Cepheus Black cut in—sounding quite bored—“You weren’t even alive then, and had you been you probably would’ve been too occupied licking the man’s boots to notice.”

“Now see here—“

“Oh go and kiss that Dutch reprobate of yours, or kindly bugger off.” Monoceros’s brother—the decidedly NOT Protestant, Serpens Black—interrupted him, looking poised to jump from his portrait to wallop the man.

Monoceros sneered, disdainfully. “I don’t take orders from _Jacobite filth_ —“

“—And I don’t take them from _WILLIAMITE SCUM_!”

This—as always—started another row between the portraits. Well, not so much a row as it was berating Monoceros for his conversion whilst he grew increasingly furious, and his words trailed off into furious sputters and screams.

Regulus took this opportunity to escape their notice and quickly made his way up to his bedroom, dashing up the stairs lest an errant portrait feel the need to remark on his return. 

The walk to his room was oddly comforting—though it still felt a bit foreign to him after so many years gone. But as he walked along, each step began to feel more familiar than the last. 

Arriving at his door, he took in the now rusted warning placard with a melancholic smile.

_DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF_

_REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK_

He’d of course only put that sign up for Sirius—as he would be silly to think his mother would pay any mind to it, or that his father wouldn’t respect that basic rule of decency. The words engraved on it oddly struck a chord with him. Was he even Regulus Black anymore? Hadn’t that boy died in that cave all those years ago? He’d been Alfred Hitchens longer than he’d been Regulus Black, after all—perhaps he had no right to enter this room anymore, to call it his own. 

No _—_ Alfred Hitchens wasn't who he was. Alfred Hitchens had existed in a vacuum, he'd had no family, no past. He was relatively content as Alfred, true, living in anonymity, known only by the locals in that small town he'd called home—but that happiness had always felt false, like he was playing a role instead of being himself. Every time he'd introduce himself to someone new, even after sixteen years he still felt the urge to say 'Regulus Black'. 

Alfred never had any true friends. Acquaintances, yes—but never closer than that. The few times he'd allowed himself to become close with someone, the first few months would be fine, but eventually, they'd leave when they realized that Alfred was nothing but a farce—that he wasn't meant to be a real person but to serve as a placeholder for one who'd died long ago, that he was nothing more than a shell. Alfred never suffered these losses—he merely went back to playing his part as the friendly town bookstore owner. But Regulus had had his heart broken more times than he could count. 

He always knew that these relationships would end in pain for him, that they could never be anything more than a temporary balm. But in a way—they were the only thing that reminded him that he was still human. That his heart was still beating, that it wasn't as dead as 'Regulus' was supposed to be. Many would think that the numbness associated with forgetting one's identity, one's personhood, would be preferable to the pain suffered from heartbreak. 

It wasn't. The numbness was far, far worse. 

No—Alfred was a ruse, nothing more.

And he was tired of playing pretend. 

Taking a deep breath, he cautiously wrapped his fingers around the door handle, and pulled it open. 

* * *

This was wrong. 

So fucking wrong. 

Seriously—who in their right minds would think that this was _normal_?

Those thoughts and many others were the ones going through Sirius’s head at the sight of his former headmaster—dressed in his flamboyant robes, white hair growing all the way to his middle, trademark pleasant smile firmly in place—and his irate grandfather—sensible all-black robes, not one graying black hair growing past his ear, groomed mustache, and ever-present sneer plastered onto his face—standing at opposite ends of the room. 

“Well,” Dumbledore started, as if this room wasn’t a mere comment away from exploding, “I must say that your grandson looks quite healthy for a dead man.”

“Yes—the boy pulled quite the disappearing act on us all. Betrayed the Dark Lord and left England with his tail between his legs.”

Dumbledore blinked, “Truly?”

“Oh yes—“ he turned his head to sneer at Sirius, “It would appear that being a glutton for martyrdom runs in the family.” 

Sirius flushed in embarrassment. Bloody vampire—

“Well,” Dumbledore clapped his hands together, “I daresay Horace will be thrilled—I don’t think he ever got over that loss—though who could blame him?”

Arcturus snorted, “I’m inclined to let him take the fool for himself should he like. Especially after the nonsense he told me just now. Though that can be revisited later, we have things to discuss.”

The headmaster didn’t appear like he had any desire to abandon the conversation of just how Regulus Black was alive in this room—on top of apparently having betrayed Voldemort?—and not dead in a ditch somewhere, though he seemed to mentally file away the matter for a later date. 

“Anyhow, You look well, Arcturus. Though our last meeting left little to be desired, I must say it is a pleasure to see you again. What’s it been now? A year?”

At this reminder, Arcturus looked as if he'd smelled something particularly unpleasant, “Yes,” he spat, “A year.”

Sirius furrowed his brow, utterly perplexed. “What? Why would you have seen each other a year ago?”

His grandfather turned to him, and the fury from the glare he shot him instantly answered his question.

_Oh, right—my brief capture at Hogwarts._

Sirius cleared his throat nervously, hoping to God Dumbledore could say something to get the old vampire’s gaze off of him. 

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled with that sort of inscrutable amusement he was known for. “You know,” he said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever had two former pupils together in one room that were this far apart in age.”

Sirius blinked at both the abrupt change in subject and the revelation that his grandfather was once a pupil of his headmaster’s, “You taught Arcturus?”

Arcturus looked supremely displeased at the brazen use of his first name, but held his tongue. 

Dumbledore, tranquil as ever, nodded. “He was one of my first students. Class of 1918—unless I’m mistaken, Arcturus?”

“Yes,” he replied, impatiently tapping his fingers on his cane.

Sirius found he couldn’t imagine the old bloodsucker as ever being less than eighty years old—much less a child. He snorted at the picture that came into his head—Arcturus in first year walking around with a miniature cane, berating the professors for their impertinence  and sipping goblets of brandy at mealtime.

“Would you like to share with the rest of us what you find so amusing about this?” Arcturus grit out, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, nothing,” Sirius replied, cheekily. “I was just always under the impression that this one was taught by old Salazar himself.”

“Your impudence isn’t amusing in the slightest.”

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore said **—** his tone as if he was at a pleasant morning tea and not in the middle of an extremely tense battle of wills, “But I can’t help but notice when looking back now,” he turned to Sirius, “You and your grandfather were quite similar as schoolboys, you know?”

Both grandfather and grandson blinked at this, then began denying it wholeheartedly.

“Preposterous—“

“—That’s rubbish—“

“Complete and utter tripe—“

“—Not bloody likely—“

Dumbledore merely grinned wider at this, as if there was some secret joke the both of them weren’t in on. Whatever it was, Sirius didn’t find it funny. 

“At any rate, I don’t believe you’ve summoned me here for old pleasantries. Please,” Dumbledore waved his hands, “What is it that has need of my attention?”

“Your lackeys are currently locked in the kitchens under guard of a house-elf, without wands,” Arcturus replied, bluntly. “My daughter-in-law caught them breaking into this house— _my house_ —in an attempt to take it as a headquarters for your pitiful militia.”

Sirius shot Arcturus a glower—the mummy had actually sent over his personal house-elf to drag Bill, Tonks, and Lupin into the kitchens. He'd tried to stop it, but since he didn't have a wand all he got for his trouble was being suspended in mid-air by elf-magic until they were all successfully imprisoned.

The old headmaster took this in without an ounce of surprise, though he turned to Sirius with a slightly disappointed look on his face—to which the younger man scratched the back of his neck self-consciously.

“I see,” he said, “And I assume you’ve brought me here to make amends for their mistake?” 

“No,” Arcturus said—to which Dumbledore and Sirius both blinked, “I brought you here to formally offer Grimmauld Place for your headquarters.” 

For the first time in—maybe ever—Sirius could see genuine shock in Dumbledore’s face, though it only lasted for a fraction of a second. Not that he could blame him, as he was sure that his own jaw was on the floor right now. 

_ What the fuck was the vampire thinking? _

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly, though more out of curiosity than anything. “Forgive me, Arcturus, but I don’t exactly see what reason you would have to offer such a thing?” 

“I wouldn’t have ever done so—in fact, I would have been quite content to rid myself of the three idiots locked downstairs and lock my grandson in here for the rest of his life without so much as an owl sent to you. However, circumstances have changed, you see. My other grandson showing up here alive and having betrayed the Dark Lord merits a…shift in strategy.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed further, though the smile stayed firmly in place, “Naturally.”

“What—“ Sirius sputtered, pointing an accusing finger at his grandfather, “What are you playing at?”

Arcturus turned to Sirius, his sneer even more pronounced if that was possible, “I’m not _playing,”_ he spat out the word as if it was poison on his tongue, “at anything. Unlike you, some of us adults don’t feel the need to engage in your childish games.”

He reddened in both embarrassment and anger, though before he could say anything, Dumbledore raised a hand and gave him a grave look—which promptly shut him up.

His grandfather looked none too pleased with the fact that the headmaster could command that amount of deference from him, something which gave Sirius a petulant sort of glee. 

But before he could bask in the smugness he felt at having irritated Arcturus, Dumbledore—to his horror—began speaking about the idea in earnest, as if he was seriously considering it. 

_No. No, no, no, no, no, NO!_

Arcturus was only too happy to contribute, laying out his reasoning for handing it over to Dumbledore as well as the benefits of having Grimmauld Place as Order HQ. He was sure that he could feel his heart dropping into his stomach as Dumbledore’s face grew more and more impressed and thoughtful, whilst Arcturus’s key points and pointed rebuttals further corroborated the proposal. 

Sirius wasn’t even sure if he could hear most of what was being said due to the deafening sound of the blood leaving his face. 

“Are you quite alright, Sirius?” Dumbledore said, snapping him out of his fugue state, “You’re looking rather pale.”

Arcturus turned to give him a disdainful once-over, “He’s fine,” he cleared his throat, “Anyhow, back to the subject at hand—Grimmauld Place as headquarters would make for fine publicity and would no doubt propel us back to our former position as key players in ministry politics. Furthermore, it would do wonders for their marriage prospects.”

Sirius flushed—was he still thinking he could wed him off like some princess?—“I am not going to be married off by you! You don’t own me!” He blurted out, though he reddened even further when he heard how petulant and over-dramatic his voice sounded.

Arcturus made a _‘hn’_ sound in the back of his throat, looking utterly unconcerned at his grandson’s display of defiance, “These past two years haven’t done much to relieve you of that impertinent streak, I see,” the manner in which he studied him was eerily similar to his face whenever he was evaluating his prized palfreys, “We’ll have to remedy that.”

“There will be no remedy! I—I won’t let myself be leashed up by you! Make this headquarters if you bloody well please,” the idea even now made Sirius feel sick, “But I won’t be staying here!”

“Yes, you will. That’s a key condition for this little exchange. Dumbledore gets his lackeys back _unharmed_ —as well as a thoroughly warded, untraceable headquarters that no one would dare suspect in the first place. In exchange,” he bared his teeth into a feral grin, “I get my _precious_ grandson back into my custody.”

Sirius turned to Dumbledore, hoping to god that his headmaster would refuse this outright, but he felt like someone had dropped a ton of bricks onto his head at the contrite expression on his face. 

“Sirius, you need to understand—“

“No!” Sirius said, “I don’t need to understand anything! This— This isn’t right!” Sirius sputtered, indignantly. “You’re really locking me up in this hellhole, with these bloody snakes?!”

“Now, Sirius,” Dumbledore said, calmly. “I’m sure that staying with your family won’t be nearly as awful as you’re claiming it will be.”

Sirius couldn’t believe it. The man was actually leaving him here. With _them._

He might as well have stuck him back in Azkaban.

No—This was worse than Azkaban. In Azkaban, his nightmares were just nightmares.

Here—They were all real.

“You can’t do this,” Sirius said, though his voice was bordering on pleading. “I don’t want to—I _can’t_ —“

“You think what you want actually matters?” came the sneering voice of Arcturus from the corner of the room. “What do you think built this house, boy? Whims, wishes, and whinging? No,” He leaned forward. “This house was built on one thing. Our ancestors survived because of one thing. And it was blood. Blood that we bred, and blood that we shed. The sooner you resign yourself to the duties that come with that—the better your life here will be.”

“You can’t—“

“I _can_ ,” Arcturus cut him off, appearing to take no small amount of pleasure in how white his face had gone, “and I _will_.”

Sirius, dumbstruck as he was, rallied to make one final, quixotic appeal to Dumbledore, desperately hanging onto the hope that the man would see reason. “I can’t believe you!” he pointed to Dumbledore. “You’re allying with _them_?! They—they hate muggleborns! Despise them! Why on earth would you be—“

“ —It’s not about protecting mudbloods, you complete and utter dunce,” Arcturus cut in, acting as if Dumbledore wasn’t even in the room. “It’s about protecting the line. Since both you and my other misbegotten whelp of a grandson see fit to fight in this idiotic war, I have no choice but to make sure your side wins.”

Sirius didn’t believe that for a second. No, the vampire was up to something. He could see it in his eyes—he was planning. 

“Rest assured, Sirius,” said Dumbledore, tranquil as ever—as if he wasn’t in the middle of an extremely heated argument. “I’m under no impression your family has changed their beliefs. It would be quite foolish to think such a thing. Still, they clearly have a stake in this war—well, two,” his beard twitched, playfully. “So I trust they will act in what is in their best interests.”

Sirius groaned, frustratedly running a hand through his hair. But damn it all, a small part of him knew Dumbledore’s argument made some sense. Protecting the line would be his family’s chief interest, and blacks never fought in wars that weren’t their own. 

But—Fucking hell, why did he have to be here for that?

Good god, he’d be trapped here forever—lest Arcturus ever humbled himself enough to die… 

…Who was he fooling? The damn vampire would outlive them all.

“Stop acting like a child,” Arcturus snapped, clearly not one for Dumbledore’s more patient approach. 

“I’ll act how I bloody well please, considering I’m going to be stuck in a house with you people! Sacrificing myself so you can all come out looking like heroes by the end of this war and secure your precious dynasty!”

Arcturus's grey eyes finally went black with silent rage, and Sirius instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing.

“How _dare_ you act as if you’re the victim here? How dare you proclaim that you’re the one who’s sacrificing anything?”

He walked—well, limped—over to Sirius, his face nothing short of furious. 

“You are a _disgrace_ to this family. A deplorable, _spiteful_ little deadweight who has done nothing but drag our name through the muck and shame the legacy our ancestors worked centuries to build with your idiocy.” He leaned in closer, “Had Regulus not pulled his little stunt, I would have gladly let you rot in Azkaban.”

Sirius shrank back at his grandfather’s harsh words, feeling as if he’d just taken a stunner to the chest.

It wasn’t just the words, though. The tone.

He didn’t think it was possible for someone, even Arcturus, to sound so completely disgusted. 

“As it is,” he continued, savagely continuing his attack, “That is not the set of circumstances we find ourselves in. So now I have to watch, day after day, as all manner of filth that you’ve dragged here prances about, walking these halls that were my _father’s_ and his father’s before _him_. By what right dare you speak to me of sacrifice, you good-for-nothing _cur_?”

Sirius tried not to let the hurt show on his face, though judging from Dumbledore’s pitying expression, the distinct pinprick at the corner of his eyes, as well as the involuntary trembling of his lips, he had failed miserably. 

Arcturus—far from taking pity at his grandson who was merely one word away from bursting into tears—curled his lip in disgust at the perceived weakness, making Sirius feel even more self-conscious than before. 

He turned to Dumbledore, “I assume you’ll accept, then?”

Dumbledore was looking at Arcturus with disapproval, his lips a firm line, though he nodded, “I would.”

Sirius felt his body go limp and he plopped down onto the nearest armchair, particles of dust flying in every direction. 

“Good,” Arcturus grit out, “Your people will be released as soon as the Fidelius and any other necessary wards have been installed—and this one,” he pointed to Sirius, “Has been secured. Are we understood?”

“Perfectly.”

He nodded, curtly. “Let’s go upstairs and get this taken care of then.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Arcturus,” Dumbledore said, his voice a touch colder than usual, though still polite. “I would speak with Sirius beforehand.”

He ground his teeth in irritation, “Very well then, I will wait for you in the study on the second floor.” 

The headmaster nodded, and Arcturus promptly left the room muttering under his breath.

Sirius looked up after the door closed, only to find Dumbledore staring down at him with pity, extending a bright blue handkerchief. 

Sirius was about to refuse until he realized—to his eternal embarrassment—that his cheeks were wet. 

He snatched the handkerchief out of Dumbledore’s hand, glaring at him openly—though the effect was ruined when he promptly blew his nose with the damn thing. 

“Is that your idea of someone you’d want to ally with, _hm_?” Sirius said, barely keeping the quiver out of his voice, “Who the _fuck_ talks to their _family_ that way?!”

“I do not condone what he said, Sirius—it was uncalled for, as well as unnecessarily cruel—though you cannot claim not to understand where his anger is coming from.”

Sirius felt the hurt he felt at Arcturus’s cutting remarks give way to a wave of fierce anger, “You—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He said, shooting up from the chair. “Have you lost your mind? What does he have to be angry about?”

“Your escape from Azkaban, for instance,” Dumbledore pointed out, dryly. “Three weeks before a trial that would have no doubt ended in your full exoneration judging by the manner in which your grandfather had spent the past ten years stacking the Wizengamot.”

“He doesn’t bloody care about _me_! None of them do!” Sirius scoffed, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, “They only care about their precious legacy. After I ran off I didn’t hear a word from them—Not one _fucking_ letter to indicate that they wanted me, that they cared!” His voice broke, though he continued, “They had Regulus—their perfect heir, so they didn’t need me anymore. It was only after he _‘died’_ that they even deigned to contact me—after I’d been imprisoned for six months!”

He stood there, breathing heavily until he let out a decidedly dog-like growl and began pacing around the room in an effort to collect his thoughts. 

“You say he doesn’t care about you? Nor your mother?” Dumbledore said, and his patient tone conveyed to Sirius that he was about to be told something he didn’t want to hear.

“No.”

“Only Regulus?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, and seeing the slightly calculating expression on Dumbledore’s face made him begrudgingly accept that his grandfather’s favored form of address for him—wily old half-blood—was not entirely without merit. 

“Yes.”

“Then would you enlighten me on why they would be so desperate enough as to offer their ancestral home for an organization they clearly hold in contempt—something that no doubt from this,” he pointed to the tapestry, “means a great deal to them—in order to ensure that you stay under their custody?”

Sirius goggled at him, dumbly. “Because they want to control me!” He replied as if it was obvious.

“But why?” Dumbledore pressed, looking like he was going in for the kill. He found himself thinking that the old man really should have been in Slytherin. “They have Regulus back, their ‘perfect heir’ I believe you said?” His lip twitched, “By your own admission, they should no longer care what happens to you.”

Sirius was ready to give a sharp retort, but his anger cooled when he realized—to his eternal frustration—that he had no response to that. 

Damn it—why _did_ they want him back? They hadn’t cared before, why should they now? With Reg back under their control, it should’ve been so simple. They should have been pushing him away, insisting he leave and never come back. Sirius didn’t deny that it would have hurt—because for some fucking reason it _would_ , no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it wasn’t true—but it would’ve been _easier_. 

Then again, nothing was ever easy with these bloody lunatics, was it?

“Look at me, Sirius.”

Sirius turned his head to see Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes firmly fixed on him. 

“This tapestry,” he nodded his head towards it, “How did it come to be?”

Sirius blinked at the abrupt change in subject, though he felt all the years of education on Black family history involuntarily claw their way to the surface, “It was commissioned by King Henry V as a gift after Regulus Argos Black helped lead the English forces to victory in the Siege of Harfleur. Regulus’s son—Circinus Ophiuchus Black—was the one who enchanted it to update every time a new Black was born, and every time one died.”

“Fascinating," Dumbledore breathed out, lightly running his fingers over the old fabric. “Close to six-hundred years old then,” Dumbledore looked to Sirius, who nodded grudgingly. 

“And yet, something so old, so venerable, filled with such incredible spellwork and history—is also so very wrong.”

Sirius furrowed his brow, “What are you on about?”

“Why look at it,” Dumbledore extended his arm to Regulus’s spot, “1961-1979? Is your brother not currently alive and well in his room?” 

Sirius, still confused, nodded—thought the confusion momentarily gave way to curiosity as to just how the runt was able to manipulate the spellwork on the tapestry to show he’d died. 

“And this—“ Dumbledore pointed to the scorch mark where Sirius’s name once was, “According to this, you should be considered dead to your family. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this house—let alone be worthy of negotiation on their behalf. And yet, here you are—both of those things.” 

“This scorch mark,” Dumbledore continued, pointing to a spot in between his great-aunt Belvina and great-grandfather Cygnus, “I know for a fact wasn’t universally paid heed to, as when I taught at Hogwarts I caught Phineas meeting with his unruly, muggle-loving son more times than I can count.”

Sirius goggled at this piece of information, though before he could question Dumbledore on why the hell Phineas Nigellus was in contact with his disowned son, the older man cut in, “My point is, that this tapestry—old and rich its history may be—does not tell the entire story. It only reveals what’s on the surface. It has no monopoly on the hearts of every Black, nor does it tell you of all the emotions hidden beneath each scorch mark, each death date.”

He turned back to Sirius, peering at him intently through those half-moon spectacles, “Just as everything is not what it seems with this tapestry, the same can be said for your own family. The world is not split into black or white, Sirius—would that it was, for things would be far simpler—but it isn’t. Humans are complex creatures—the same, whether you like it or not, applies to your family and their own feelings.”

Much to his chagrin—these words carried that familiar tone of finality that Dumbledore employed whenever he was unwilling to speak further. Sirius himself thought there was quite a bit more to say, but he knew to try and press Dumbledore on this would be a fruitless endeavor. So it was with a glower sent in his headmaster’s direction that he begrudgingly nodded his assent. 

The older man clapped his hands together, “Splendid! I assume this means you’ll agree to this plan? After all—it would be a great boon to the order to gain this house, and I have a feeling your friends would prefer not to spend the rest of their lives locked in the kitchens.” 

Sirius snorted, “Bold of you to assume Arcturus would let them live.” After a few moments, he let out a resigned sigh, “I have no choice in this, do I?”

“There is always a choice, Sirius. Though in this case,” he grimaced, “I reckon it would be best to do as your family says for the time being. Just try for a few months—should you truly wish to leave after that…Well, I make no promises, but I’ll try my best to make other arrangements.”

Sirius softened slightly at the assurance—though he knew it would very likely not be possible, the words comforted him either way. 

“Is that all, sir?” 

Dumbledore nodded.

“Very well,” Sirius cleared his throat, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room.” 

Though he retroactively cringed at just how ridiculous that sounded coming from the mouth of a thirty-five-year-old man, he shook it off and made his way out of the drawing-room and up the stairs. 

* * *

After the miserable revelation that he would be locked up here for however long his family saw fit, Sirius sought out the only place of comfort for him in this entire house—his room.

He'd cursed and punched his pillow until feathers started littering the floor, pretending it was Arcturus's wrinkled old face. But though that had brought him temporary glee, in the end, he collapsed onto his covers in exhaustion and continued the practice he'd perfected in this when he'd lived in this house—brooding.

“Sirius?” came a voice from the door. 

“Go away, whoever you are,” he said, putting his face down into his pillow. “I’m not in the bloody mood.”

He could hear them shifting their feet just outside the door, before clearing their throat and saying, “It’s...Regulus.”

Sirius blinked. Oh—Reggie. Merlin, he’d been so focused on Arcturus and Dumbledore imprisoning him here he hadn’t spared much thought to the fact that Reg was here too—alive.

He hesitated for a few moments before sighing, “Come in.”

The door opened, and a nervous Regulus stepped in the room.

Sirius found himself struck by how much he’d grown. His face had quite a bit of his old baby fat. His cheeks had actual stubble on them—Reg with a beard was about as strange to him as Mum protesting for muggle rights. His hair was longer than he’d ever seen it—though not nearly as long as his was—and, fucking hell, the resemblance to Alphard was uncanny. 

Though he was clearly nervous, he could notice a certain confidence to his brother that there hadn’t been before—Hell, he hadn’t even blushed when confronted with the old Farrah Fawcett poster like he always used to.

What was that all about?

“Here to defend the crypt keeper, I assume?” Sirius said, bitterly. 

Regulus blinked, owlishly. “What?”

Sirius snorted, shrugging in an effort to look nonchalant. “Arcturus read me the riot act today. Called me a ‘disgrace to the family’ and claimed he would’ve gladly let me rot in Azkaban had you not ‘pulled your little stunt’.”

His brother grimaced, “I’m sure he’s just angry—“

“—When is he not—“

“—He, he reamed me out too.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

Sirius blinked, before letting out a mirthful laugh at the image of Reg shrinking into a couch while getting screamed at by the old vampire, “Oh god, that’s right—I can’t imagine he was too happy with your little disappearing act either.”

“It’s...a long story. Something I’d prefer not to—get into at present. It’s been a rather challenging day, if you hadn’t noticed,” he pointed to a mark on his face. When Sirius leaned in to get a better look, he noticed the engraving detail from his mother’s signet ring.

He let out a low whistle, “Bloody hell, Reg, you have her damn initials embedded into your cheek.”

“I deserved it," Reg shrugged.

Sirius huffed, shaking his head in exasperation. Reg thought he deserved every single thing this bloody family did to him. It’s no surprise the mentality hadn’t changed in 16 years. 

“You’re quite the masochist, you know, showing up back here—to them,” he spat out the word, venomously. “I would’ve stayed—well, wherever it is you’ve been.”

“Italy."

Sirius’s eyes widened in surprise. He would’ve expected France or Germany, but Italy? The runt truly was full of surprises.

“Italy? Why the hell would you leave Italy for—this,” he flourished his arm at the room, distastefully. 

Reg stayed silent for a few seconds before responding in a quiet, yet grave voice. “I got the call. I…I would’ve thought you’d got it too.”

Sirius was about to ask what in merlin’s beard the call was before his eyes widened in realization, and his lip curled in disdain.

Voldemort. 

Regulus had never been one to disobey his superiors. 

He’d forgotten that his brother was one of them—all of the shock surrounding his return had still been fresh when Arcturus dragged him to Noire House for a scolding—yet now, all he could think about was the fact that a death eater was going to be staying at the newly minted headquarters of the order of the Phoenix.

Then again, Arcturus had said he'd betrayed Voldemort, hadn’t he? Though the information’s source left much to be desired, his grandfather had never been a liar. A pompous, cruel, cadaverous arse—but not a liar. 

Still, he was skeptical.

His train of thought was interrupted when he processed what it was that Regulus had said at the end of that sentence.

“Wait—what do you mean you would’ve thought I’d have got it too?” Sirius asked, confused. 

Regulus blinked, “You—you were one of us, weren’t you? The prophet said—“

“The prophet is a crock of shit!” Sirius cut in, deeply offended. “You can’t have actually believed _I_ was one of his—that I would betray James and Lily?”

Regulus’s face paled, though he cleared his throat and pressed on, “I’d barely spoken to you in three years, Sirius,” he scoffed, bitterly, “You barely acknowledged me after Hogwarts, anyway. How was I supposed to know what you were up to?”

Sirius recoiled at the silent accusation in that question, though he shook it off, his hurt and offense at his brother's assumptions winning over, “You should’ve known that I wouldn’t have done it— _Merlin_ , Reg, I may be a cheeky git, but I'm not a monster—I’d hope you’d think better of me than that!”

Regulus’s expression turned doleful, “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know what to think. It didn’t sound like you, but…”

“But what?”

Regulus appeared to debate himself on what to say before he shook his head, “Nothing—just…I’m sorry—I should’ve known better.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the unspoken insinuation, but decided to drop the matter for the time being. It was better to focus on Regulus than himself right now.

“It’s fine, runt. But I hope your eyesight improves in future, since when we reconnected in the drawing-room, I was in the company of a Weasley, Lupin, and Andi’s kid.”

Reggie blinked, “I…didn't even notice them.”

“Yes, well— _Mummy dearest_ has a way of stealing the show.” He turned to regard him with a serious expression, “Is it true? What Arcturus said? You really betrayed him?”

Regulus looked down at his lap, fidgeting with his fingers, before speaking in a subdued voice, “Yes.”

“But then, why come back? After all these years, why not just stay hidden?”

“—I can’t stay hidden,” Reg said, a conviction in his voice, “I hid the last time, thinking everything was over. But it’s not. I need to fight—I,” he gulped, “I came to kill him.”

Sirius found himself sputtering for a few moments at his brother's words before he let out a disbelieving laugh. “You what?!”

“I’m not joking, Sirius,” Regulus’s voice was hard as stone, and Sirius found himself blinking at just how adult he sounded at that moment. “I’ve seen what he can do—that’s why I left, and you can call me a coward for that if you want to, but I don’t care. I realize now that—that he needs to be stopped. And if I can help, well then, I need to be here.”

If Regulus was hiding some other reason for his departure and return in that moment, Sirius couldn’t tell since he was still in shock at the idea of his twitchy baby brother going toe-to-toe with Voldemort.

Oddly enough though, He found that he believed Regulus. He may have been biased—damn it to hell, he was biased—but Reg had burned every bridge he had by leaving. Bella had never liked him much, and this revelation wouldn’t exactly put him in her favor. Hell, even if the crazy bitch did value family enough to take him back, she was still clapped up in Azkaban and couldn’t exactly do anything to help. 

Besides, hadn’t he told Mum four hours ago that Reg had been pushed into the death eaters by the crowd she’d let him hang around? That he was a follower, not a leader? Too weak-willed to resist his parents? If he’d given him the benefit of the doubt then, why shouldn’t he give it to him now?

“I believe you,” Sirius said, nodding once. 

Regulus heaved out a sigh of relief, “Thank you.” 

Sirius snorted, before bursting out laughing at the image that made its way into his head.

“What’s so funny?” Regulus furrowed his brow, tapping his fingers on the headboard.

Sirius shook his head, still smiling, “I was just thinking of you as an order member. That’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Regulus scowled, petulantly. “I never said I would join your order.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward at his little brother’s typical contrarian attitude. “Ah yes, then enlighten me on how you’re going to fight Voldemort. You plan to stroll up to the ministry and apply for the Auror program? I don’t think they accept dead men.”

"There are other ways to fight this than secret militias.”

At that word, Sirius scoffed, the bitterness easily discernible. “You’re the second person to use that word to describe the Order in the past hour, you know? _Militia_ ,” he chuckled, “This isn’t 1753, you know that right?”

His brother frowned as he recognized the reference to Arcturus, “He’s angry, Sirius. I’m sure he didn’t mean—“

“—Since when has that man ever let something _slip out_?” Sirius let out an indignant snort, “You didn’t hear it, Reg. It wasn’t some angry outburst that just slipped out—it was a practiced, devastating, damn near tactical attack. And the worst thing is that the bastard succeeded.”

“Succeeded in what?”

He shifted uncomfortably, “I—I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just,” he flapped his arms around, “The same shit as usual. These people are clearly miserable to have me around—they just—” he fished around for the first justification for this he could think of,“—want an extra stud-horse for their dying line.” 

Yes—that was it, of course! They didn’t want him, they just needed someone to make them little black-haired, grey-eyed, pureblood ponces to ensure the succession! They would, of course, fail miserably—as Sirius wasn’t the type to allow himself to be chained—but at least now their intentions made _sense_. He could’ve danced around naked from happiness if Regulus wasn’t in the room.

Dumbledore and his nonsense about people being complex. What complete and utter rubbish. 

Regulus—bless him, the poor sod still thought they had feelings—looked extremely skeptical at his, but seemed to take the hint and didn’t say anything. 

After a few moments of companionable silence, Regulus spoke up, his voice meek and unassuming in a—thankfully—familiar way.

“I’m not.”

“Not what?” Sirius asked. 

“Miserable to have you around,” Reg clarified, and Sirius felt a familiar surge of affection in his chest for his younger brother, “I—I missed you.”

He sat up, pulling him into a gruff embrace, which Regulus returned—albeit awkwardly. 

“I missed you too, runt," he ruffled his hair.

“…Can you not call me tha—“

“—No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially young Artemis Black—Arcturus Fowl—ah, young Arcturus Black!
> 
> Please leave me some feedback as I love to hear your opinions and it really is what keeps me going!
> 
> Until next time! (Hopefully, the wait won't be as long haha)
> 
> Chat with me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcturus finds an old memento, Walburga faces the trouble her two boys pose, Regulus continues his work, and Sirius despairs at his new confinement.

Red. 

That was all Arcturus saw. 

As he furiously trudged his way up the stairs—not even bothering to spare a glance at those damned gossiping portraits he should’ve gathered up into a bonfire years ago—he found he could barely spare a thought to the conversation that had just occurred in the drawing-room without vibrating in rage. 

The impudent wretch had actually had the temerity to _weep_.

_Weep._

Like some— _woman._

He was furious with the younger one as well—perhaps he should’ve been even more so—but at least that one had had the dignity to keep himself together even after an hour of screaming. 

_This one_ couldn’t stand a few seconds of righteous fury before clutching at his pearls, whimpering, and reaching for a handkerchief. And it _was_ righteous.

_Nothing_ he’d said was wrong. Perhaps he was harsher than he would’ve usually been, though the circumstances—along with his unrepentant impudence—had called for it. Had the boy actually expected Arcturus would let him have his amusement forever? Making impertinent quips, constantly refusing to show even the slightest bit of deference except for his rakish degenerate of a headmaster. No—he’d pushed him over the edge. Every single word was well-deserved. 

Yes…it absolutely was. 

Any niggling voices in the back of his head assuming otherwise were nothing more than vestiges of weakness left over from his sentimental fool of a father. 

As he reached the sixth floor—he must have blacked out from the sheer amount of fury because he hadn’t even recalled going further than the second—he surveyed his surroundings with a newfound distaste. 

Truly, this place had gone to the _dogs_. How on earth had he allowed it to fall into such disrepair?

Arcturus supposed he’d meant to stay his hand at cleaning it until Sirius and whichever chit he would’ve picked out from the ring binder had finally been wedded and bedded. Though this place was well beyond a mere _cleaning._ He’d have to have much of it renovated, perhaps even have some parts _rebuilt_. 

Why on earth had he let this happen? 

Arcturus sighed, running a hand over his face in frustration. Truth be told, perhaps there was _some_ measure of bias involved. He’d never cared for this place. Oh, he’d lived in it for many years—as was expected of the head of the house of Black—but once Orion had finally grown enough of a pair to take his shrewish cousin to wife, he’d happily handed over the keys and retired to Noire House with Melania. 

No—Grimmauld Place had never been a true home for him. Not since Mother's death and the subsequent fallout. 

And now, it wasn't a home for anybody—instead serving as a cenotaph, of what the Black family had once been, of the hundreds of years of history effectively lost to time. 

Eyeing the door on the left-hand side of the corridor, he felt himself drawn to it as he had been in his childhood—only then the plaque on the door read ‘ARCTURUS’ instead of the idiot’s name. Before him, it had been Lucretia’s room as a child—it was only intended to be temporary until a son was born to him, but once Orion came she refused to move so much as an inch from it, and as the boy grew older it became clear he had no intention of standing up for himself on that front, instead settling meekly in the room intended for the spare. 

Cracking open the door, his first reaction to what lay inside was a sneer of contempt as he took in the obnoxious red Gryffindor wallpaper and the large posters of undressed muggle floozies. He hadn’t been inside the room since Lucretia’s school years, so he’d only heard of what had been done to it secondhand by an exasperated Orion. 

He remembered what he’d told his son back then— _There’s no level of impudence that a good beating can’t solve_ —but of course, Orion merely nodded as if humoring him, and craftily changed the subject. 

A creak from one of the floorboards snapped him out of his thoughts, and it was with a surprised huff that he recalled what he’d hidden beneath it all those years ago. 

Fishing his wand out of his coat pocket, he lifted the loose floorboard with a single flick, and though its cover was weathered and slightly torn—it was still the same journal he’d been gifted for his tenth birthday, nestled in the open gap of the flooring. He’d stopped writing in it after the accident—though he didn’t have the strength to destroy it, instead tucking it away in a safe place. 

Arcturus levitated it in the air with a silent swish, watching as it gracefully landed into his hands. He opened it to the second to last entry, and found himself struck by the youthful innocence radiating off the pages. The tone in which his twelve-year-old self had described events was still very much disconsolate, but there was also a sense of guilelessness in the way he looked at the world, a vestige of impressionability that his father’s behavior hadn’t yet snuffed out. 

For better or worse, the last of it would be destroyed in the following week. 

**_April 10, 1912_**

_After saying his goodbye’s to Lycoris and Regulus—as well as giving their half-blooded slip of a governess the address with which to reach him with concerns in New York—he left with Phineas._

_Arcturus had thought they would simply apparate, though he was woefully incorrect in that regard and they’d ridden to Southampton in Phineas’s flying Renault—Lucille._

_Aside from the deafening sound of his heart nearly beating out of his chest in fear the whole flight—Phineas had, to top it all off, brought along an enchanted phonograph in the backseat, playing that infernal song on a loop the entire way there. He would hear snippets every once in a while whenever he was able to regain consciousness._

_‘Oh say, let us fly dear…Where kid, to the sky dear. Oh, you flying machine! Jump in, Miss Josephine…’_

_‘…Up, up! A little bit higher! Oh my, the moon is on fire! Come Josephine in my flying machine going up, so long, goodbye!’_

_Finally, after what seemed to be ages stuck in a catatonic state, they landed and got out of that godforsaken death trap. When they did, he saw the ship they would be going on, and his jaw damn near hit the floor._

_It was one of the largest things he’d ever seen—By far the largest ship—it almost looked like something out of a storybook. He half expected Babbity Rabbity to come bouncing out from behind the hull._

_Phineas’s smirking voice snapped him out of his state of shock, “Remarkable, isn’t it? Absolutely singular.”_

_“It’s extraordinary,” he breathed, involuntarily._

_“Come along, we’ve got to get the baggage checked out,” His face lit up then, “But before we do—you didn’t bring your wand, did you?”_

_Arcturus flushed, realizing his folly, “Oh, for Merlin's sake! Of all the things—I can’t believe how much of an idi—“_

_“—No, no,” said Phineas, oddly giddy, “It’s better this way. Arcturus Black,” he took his wand out from his coat pocket, opened one of his trunks with a key, and promptly shoved the wand inside, locking it away. “Consider this the first day of your education, in what it is to be a muggle.”_

_Arcturus was sure his eyes were almost bulging out of his head, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?!”_

_Phineas, impudent as always—how on earth was this man considered anything resembling an adult—rolled his eyes, “It’s just a week, Archie—muggles live without wands all of the time. Besides, I can’t imagine what we’ll need a wand for on that behemoth,” he pointed to the ship. “You’re safer in there than you would be even in Hogwarts,” He snorted, “Especially than in Hogwarts considering the fact that my father is still in charge.”_

_“Do you take nothing seriously? Is this all a great joke to you?! You’re willingly surrendering your magic to this—,” he pointed at the mass of riff-raff lined up to be checked for lice, “—horde of barbarians?!”_

_Phineas raised an eyebrow, dryly, “Dramatics don’t suit you, Archie—Leave that to me, it’s quite literally my job. I’m not surrendering anything, I’m still a wizard—I’m just…taking a holiday,” He checked his pocket watch, then grimaced, “Come on, then, we’ll be late if we don’t get a move on.”_

_Arcturus, still incredulous, merely replied with a frustrated grunt and followed his uncle down the dock hearing him wax poetic about muggles and their supposed equality._

_“…Muggles are people, just like you and I, they deserve to be treated with respect afforded to decent human beings,” He turned to a steward, “Oi! You!”_

_The gangly looking man looked at him with wide eyes._

_Phineas pointed at the car, “I want every single one of these trunks checked, as well as the car—the black trunks and the Renault go in steerage, the rest goes to the Parlor suite rooms B-43, 45, and 47.”_

_“Sir,” the man replied, clearly intimidated, “Y-you need to check your baggage through the main terminal, like everyone else, sir,”_

_Phineas merely fished his billfold out of his pocket, silently counting money until shoving ten pounds into the man’s hand, “Is there a problem?”_

_His eyes widened, clearly shocked at being given that much money in a single go, “O-of course not, sir! I-I’ll get right on it!”_

_They continued walking along the dock, “Anyhow, as I was saying—Muggles are people, Archie. You can’t seriously look at everyone here and think them inferior to you?”_

_Arcturus’s eyes involuntarily went to the crowd of people before them, and they landed on a man who was eating what looked to be a chocolate bar, dropped it on the floor, then picked it up, blew on it as if that would magically make it clean, and continued eating._

_His lip curled, “Yes, I can. Besides, didn’t you tell me muggles are the same way with people? Hell, from what you told me they’re even worse. Say what you like about my beliefs, but I’ve never gone around terrorizing muggles while riding on a horse wearing a pillowcase on my head like some buffoon._

_Phineas nodded. "Yes, muggles can be quite hateful and barbaric when it comes to other muggles. British against Indians, Whites against Blacks, Catholics against Protestants—"_

_"—Well in_ that _particular case it's actually justified—"_

_"—But," Phineas continued, despite the interruption. "These are qualities that aren't unique to muggles—or have you forgotten about all the wizarding wars they make you read about in History of Magic?"_

_Arcturus rolled his eyes, choosing not to press the point any further on account of him still being discombobulated from the flight here. Instead, they boarded the ship in silence, the cheering crowd behind them waving farewell at all the voyagers._

_“Oh, my!” said Phineas, as they entered the first-class reception. “That’s John Jacob Astor—with his child bride to boot!”_

_“Can’t you see them?” Phineas said. “Over there,” he pointed to the odd couple, unsubtly. “Can’t you see them?”_

“—Can’t you see them?”

The voice that said this wasn’t the comfortingly familiar smooth tones of Phineas—but rather the obnoxiously familiar grating tones of a woman he hoped he’d never have to hear from again. 

He turned around, and just as he expected, she was there, looking at him with an expression of exasperated contempt. 

Walburga. 

“What?” He said, confused.

“The doxies, you fool—Can’t you see them?” She slowly enunciated her words as if she was clarifying something to a particularly stupid child, “I’ve been telling you about them for the last two minutes, though clearly you’re more interested in that dusty old book to notice. What is that?” She tried to look over his shoulder. 

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he stuffed the old diary into his coat pocket. “Where have you been?” 

Walburga’s gaze darted to the open gap in the floorboards, but aside from an eyebrow raise, she remained (thankfully) silent. 

“Regulus Arcturus’s return came as…quite a shock. I needed to— _collect myself_.”

“I see,” Arcturus made a _hn_ sound in the back of his throat. “Does that imprint your ring left on his cheek have anything to do with ‘collecting yourself’?”

Walburga flushed scarlet and began fiddling with the aforementioned ring. “Well—in my defense—“

“—You don’t need to defend yourself to me,” Arcturus cut in, his tone dry. “In fact, I approve—had you hit those boys in the first place we wouldn’t be in this situation.” 

The look she leveled in his direction was positively murderous, but Arcturus merely responded with a blasé shrug. 

Their tete-a-tete was interrupted by what Arcturus knew to be the whelp going up the stairs by the petulant stomping. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, nodding at Walburga, who had since stopped paying attention to him and was instead searching intently around the landing of her two idiot sons for something or other.

Making his way down the stairs, he could only dread the upcoming meeting with his former headmaster. The man was a famed busybody who felt the need to stick his nose into everybody else’s business—there was absolutely no conceivable way scenario in which he wouldn’t mention how he lost his temper with Sirius.

Not to mention the fact that Sirius himself would only use it as yet another excuse as to why this family didn’t matter to him.

It was then that the boy in question made a brief appearance, all but ignoring his grandfather as he pushed past him on the fourth floor with his head down like some impudent fifteen year old.

Good God—Sirius’s histrionics, and now Dumbledore’s incessant probing.   


There were some days he truly wished he had the ability to get drunk.

No matter—he wouldn’t allow the words of some old crackpot to get to him. 

Let the scoundrel try. 

* * *

They were embracing. 

Actually embracing. 

Her _boys_.

Walburga could’ve wept at that moment—hadn’t this been all she wanted? All those years away after Sirius left, she’d hoped and prayed that they could be together again. Then, after Regulus’s death, no, _disappearance_ —she’d thought moments like these lost forever. 

But now, they were _here._

The circumstances were, well, less than ideal. 

Actually—they were utterly _abysmal_. 

What on _earth_ had Regulus been thinking? After all she gave him, after all he saw her suffer through with Sirius’s absconding—he thinks to just…fake his death? To leave her with no son at all? 

She felt a familiar swell of anger threatening to take over, to burst into that room and smack the boy once for each year that he left her thinking he was dead—but with the help of a few breathing exercises Kreizler had taught her, she was able to resist the urge.

Meddlesome Bavarian he was, the man had his uses.

Fully collected, she quietly backed away from the opened door with an almost feline grace, making her way back down to the staircase. 

However, as she was about to take that first step back down to her bedroom—which she, to her shame, had almost completely destroyed following her trudge upstairs out of sheer rage—she felt the familiar pulse of magic at her fingertips from the wand locked in her iron grip, reminding her that there was far more to be done in terms of securing them.

Arcturus had surely taken away the boys’ wands—so they most likely couldn’t leave the house in any way. _Surely_ , that was more than enough. 

Still…if there was anything this morning had taught Walburga, it was to expect the unexpected when it came to her sons.

One could never be too safe, after all…

* * *

“ _Hello_!” shouted Tonks, growing more and more agitated by the moment. “Let us out of here!” 

Remus sighed, exhaustedly. Tonks had been at it for more than an hour now, and while he appreciated her tenacity, it was plain to see that their benevolent captors were in no rush to let them go. 

“Hello!” Tonks let out a string of curses, running a hand through her pink fringe. “Bloody hell—they can’t just lock us in here!” 

Remus snorted, dryly. “I think they beg to differ.”

“I’m an Auror!” She continued, pacing around the cavernous kitchen of Grimmauld Place. “This is kidnapping a ministry agent—don’t they know this is illegal?!”

“Tonks,” said Bill, sighing in exasperation. “Judging from…well,” he made a sweeping gesture at the room. “All this, I highly doubt these people care about any laws.” 

“Besides,” Remus said, tone wry. “It’s not as if we can complain about laws, considering we’re guilty of breaking and entering.”

“That wasn’t our fault, it was Sirius—“

“—Oh," Remus cut in, his tone even drier somehow. "You mean the escaped convict we’ve been aiding and abetting?” 

Tonks gave him a glare that he slightly recoiled from, but otherwise, he held her gaze. Something in her eyes seemed strange for the shortest moment, but before he could decipher what, she broke eye-contact. 

Remus tried to ignore how his cheeks seemed to feel much warmer than before. 

As he was about to stand, there came a shuffling sound from behind the door, followed by three voices—the first gave something akin to a short, gruff command; while the second was softer and spoke in soothingly reassuring tones. 

When the door opened, it revealed exactly who they’d all been waiting for. 

“It is I, Dumbledore,” the old headmaster greeted them, politely nodding his acknowledgment at all of them. 

“Professor!” Tonks heaved out a sigh of relief. “Thank Merlin! We thought we’d be trapped by these lunatics forever.”

Their former headmaster’s placid smile widened the slightest hint. “Not to worry, everything has been sorted out—You’re free.”

Remus couldn’t help but notice the obvious absence of his friend, and how Dumbledore had yet to remark on it. Judging from the strange gleam in the headmaster’s eyes, something more than a polite conversation had happened upstairs. 

“Sir,” Remus said, warily. “Where is Sirius?”

Dumbledore turned his twinkling blue eyes to Remus. “He’s upstairs, with his brother.”

“Oh.” He’d been far too overwhelmed by everything that had happened this morning to consider the fact that Regulus Black had returned, very much alive. Remus could still remember the day Sirius had been reading the obituaries to look for any of their own and found his brother’s name on them—how his face had trembled, how his breaths had become shorter and shorter, how he’d abruptly left James and Lily’s cottage with a broken goodbye. 

They’d only managed to find him three days later—at St. James’ Church, staring at the funeral procession with a half-emptied bottle in hand as if he wanted to jump into the empty coffin in his brother’s place, his eyes blazing with anger when they landed on his mother. Restraining him from running to them all had been a chore—and he was fairly certain some of the family had detected a strange presence across the street—but in the end, they got him to the cottage, where he’d promptly broken down in tears and spent the whole night repeating four words.

_‘It should’ve been me.’_

Remus found himself wondering how his old friend was doing under these new circumstances. 

“Will he be leaving soon, sir?”

“No,” said Dumbledore, examining the dusty surface of the stove. “He’ll be staying here indefinitely under the watch of his mother and grandfather, as will Regulus.”

Remus blinked, owlishly. “Excuse me?”

“A deal was struck between myself and the Black patriarch, Arcturus. I’m sure you all remember meeting him in the drawing-room.”

“It’s hard to forget,” said Bill, shock writ on his face. “He gave Sirius a right smacking!”

“And disarmed us!” Tonks cut in, crossing her arms petulantly.

Dumbledore pressed his lips together. “Yes, well—he can certainly be a bit… _overzealous_. Anyhow, in exchange for freeing you from captivity and giving this house to the Order, Sirius will be under their direct supervision from now on.”

Remus, processing what Dumbledore just said, exhaled sharply. “Wait…you can’t mean that—“

“—Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is the new headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.”

Remus plopped down onto a stool, mouth agape in shock. Headquarters? Here? He spoke aloud the only words that could come to him at that moment. 

“Well…Padfoot won’t like that at all.”

His former headmaster’s lips twitched. “No, he doesn’t. But Sirius is in full agreement that at the present moment, this remains the best solution for us all. We get a well-warded, concealed house that no one would ever even suspect of being headquarters, as well as full financial assistance from the Black Family, per my agreement with Arcturus. Make no mistake, this is extraordinarily beneficial to us.”

Remus pursed his lips in thought, tapping his fingers absently on the edge of the stool.This all seemed a bit too good to be true. And if even half of what Sirius had said about his family were true, then…God help them all.

“And…the family? They’re…on our side? Committed to the cause?” The skepticism was palpable in his voice.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dumbledore replied, with no small amount of humor. “But they are certainly committed to the safety of Sirius and Regulus. Winning this war is the only way that they can reclaim their rightful positions, as well as the only way for the Blacks to regain their former influence. Siding with Voldemort would result in—at best—paltry rewards. At worst…” he trailed off.

“Wait,” said Bill, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Didn’t Sirius say his brother was a death-eater?”

“It would appear that he betrayed the death eaters, hence his disappearance. Not to worry, I have been told by Arcturus that I will be allowed to meet with Regulus soon to discuss his… _status_. After all, we can’t bring your family here, Bill, without positively ensuring their safety.” 

Bill gave him a short nod in return.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore clapped his hands together. “Now, I’m sure we can discuss this more should you wish, but I’d prefer to do it somewhere a decent amount less drafty.”

They all nodded enthusiastically to that and walked through the newly opened kitchen door out to a hallway.

Their path to freedom was peppered with the sneering faces of Sirius's ancestors, all of them whispering amongst themselves at this rag-tag group of misfits breaking into their ancestral homes. 

" _Do you see that one, Columba? By God, I would bet my wand hand he's a Weasley."_

_"Oh, Corvus, darling! Look at that jezebel! What kind of respectable woman has pink hair? Not to mention the length!"_

_"That one —Carina! Put down that cake, you rotund halfwit! Look at the scratches on his face! Merlin, little Sirius wouldn't possibly bring by a werewolf!"_

Arriving at the foyer, Dumbledore made an abrupt stop.  
  
“The door is open, you may all go. I’ll summon you to my office later on to discuss our new circumstances.”

”And you, sir?”

”Oh,” he waved his hand, dismissively. “I’ll be out in a minute. I just need to check on our mutual friend.”

With a mischievous wink, he made his way up the stairs.

As the rest of the group opened the front door, Remus couldn't help but think that this house explained more about Padfoot than he'd care to admit.

* * *

It was as if time had stopped. 

Nothing in his room had changed. Here the newspaper clippings were still plastered on the walls, the bed was still made, the signs of blissfully awkward youth all still present to the naked eye. Regulus thought it resembling one of those old fossil sections in a museum—all it was missing was a plaque to commemorate him. 

Warily, he reached out to touch one of those clippings. It was yellowed, appropriately aged from the passage of time, but still legible. 1974, it said—documenting the poisoning of a reservoir in a predominantly muggle area. When the Dark Lord was still nothing more than a curious whisper heard in the corner of a cocktail party at some manor or another. When life had been simpler, and all he’d had to contend with was the growing chasm between himself and Sirius as the years at Hogwarts passed them by. 

Bella had been proud when she’d come up here and seen his morbid collage. She’d smiled at him—she never smiled at him unless it was out of cruelty or mockery—and told him that he was right to admire the Dark Lord’s work. 

_‘He’s going to wipe out the scourge of this world, Regulus—you wait and see,’_ she’d said.

Then, he’d felt pride. 

Now—all he could feel was disgust.

Tentatively grabbing the edge of a paper, he ripped it. First, in an anxious, almost staccato manner—Then, with more confidence, until finally the blasted display was turned to shreds in the wastebasket by his old davenport. 

The disgust remained, however. He felt sick—sick of being here, sick of having participated in the Dark Lord’s barbarities, and sick of being alive. He shouldn’t have been alive—had Kreacher not found a loophole and he’d died like he was supposed to, he would have been free, at peace. Finally at peace. 

Now, he was forced to live with what he’d done. This room, meant to be empty and dead, still had life in it.

He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose to calm himself. 

Taking in the room a second time, he realized he'd been mistaken in his assessment.

No—what lingered here wasn't life, but the most trivial of mundane facts. 

A clock ticking on the wall.

A room dim in the early hours of the morning. 

The outrageousness of a young, stupid boy only thinking about himself.

In Italy, he’d begun the impossible process of trying to forget all of it. 

It hadn’t worked. 

He’d always wondered if his mother had been able to do it. 

To return to her world of bridge games with Druella and Cissy, of tea with Lucretia, as though she’d been through this before. And she had, with Sirius. 

Though, judging from his conversation with his grandfather, that was evidently not the case. It would’ve appeared that when the inferi had cut into his body, the poison began to spread in the air, increasing the decomposing process of the once Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

Had it not been for Sirius—he doubted they would’ve made it through the disaster his disappearance had resulted in. 

Yet another sin to weigh him down.

When he’d been a child—in one of his rare indulgent moods after he’d expressed interest in Egyptology, Arcturus had loaned him a copy of the Book Of The Dead. He’d explained, in his typical gruff manner—though his voice had contained an enthusiasm he’d never thought the man capable of—how the Egyptians believed that when one died, in order to enter the afterlife, the god Osiris would weigh one’s heart against a feather. Should the heart prove lighter than the feather, they would be allowed to enter the afterlife, lands of milk and honey. Should it prove heavier, it would be devoured, and the person’s soul would cease to exist. 

Before the cave, and after it, there was one question that would always keep him up at night. 

_How heavy is my heart?_

It was a question he suspected he’d never stop asking himself. Not until the day came where his luck finally ran dry and all the sins of the past caught up with him. 

He hadn’t managed to die in the cave, but he wouldn’t survive this war. The odds were next to impossible. 

Sirius would—Sirius _needed_ to, he’d done no wrong. And he’d see to that, he wouldn’t leave mother completely alone ever again. That had been his mistake the first time.

She would have her son back, her firstborn. After that she could finally forget about him—one day the pain would cease, and she’d get to see Sirius live the life he should’ve lived as head. With a wife and children that Arcturus would no doubt see to it that he would have—through some underhanded means or other—finally doing what he was born to do. 

Regulus, meanwhile—would rest.

Finally, after all the years of running and uncertainty, he would rest. 

Right now, however, he needed to earn it. He wasn’t done yet—not as long as the Dark Lord still drew breath, or as long as a single life was in danger because of him. 

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he approached the davenport. Fumbling with the concealed lock on its side—it had been years since he’d used the blasted thing—he knew he’d finally found the proper combination of twists and turns when he heard the slight creak of the frame opening. Opening it, he found every dark arts book Bellatrix had ever loaned him from the library of Castle Lestrange under the assumption that he was using it to further the cause. 

The books were all caked with dust and cobwebs, like most everything else in the room, but he could still make out the title of the topmost tome. 

_SECRETS OF THE DARKEST ART_

Lifting it up, he gave it a quick once-over before blowing off most of the thick layer of dust and setting it down onto the floor beside the davenport. He did this one by one with the rest of the books until the secret storage space was finally empty and then closed it once more. 

As he sat down at the table, he picked up the copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and opened it to a page he’d dog-eared so many times the folded parchment was almost broken off. 

_HORCRUXES_

With the weight of the world firmly back on his shoulders for the first time since he was seventeen, he began to read.

* * *

_“Gahh—FUCK!”_

Sirius jumped back in pain, cursing every God he knew about while clutching onto his inflamed hand. 

It was then that he saw the slight ripple effect on the air surrounding the stairway, and a stone began to settle in his stomach. 

No—he refused to believe that even _she_ would go that far. Fucking insane his mother was, she wasn’t completely ‘round the bend.

Reaching out to the air once more, he recoiled again when the burning sensation came back—stronger this time—and stopped him from stepping past the boundary between the landing and the first step back down to the fifth floor. 

“ _DAMN IT TO HELL! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!”_

“Sirius?” Came the unassuming—and unsettlingly mature—voice of Regulus. 

His brother’s eyes widened when they saw Sirius clutching his flaming hand—which was now turning to a more maroon tone—and he quickly moved over to him. 

“Are you alright?” He said, attempting to pull him back from the landing. 

Sirius batted off his brother’s arm from his shoulder, angrily. “Oh, just peachy, Reg! That’s why my hand looks like an effing plum!” He smacked him upside the head with his uninjured hand. “No, you idiot—I’m not alright, the damn air just tried to set my hand on fire!!”

Regulus, never one to react to his brother’s anger with anything more than patience or ignorance—much to Sirius’s annoyance—simply rubbed the back of his head and let out a quiet _‘Ow.’_

Sirius, still in abject disbelief, stomped into his bedroom and went into his desk drawers, rummaging through all the useless shit he’d let pile up over the years until he finally found a sheet of paper. 

_DETENTION NOTICE FOR SIRIUS O. BLACK_

_On the night of May 2nd, 1974, Sirius Black and James Potter were caught attempting to smuggle a cow into the Gryffindor common room as part of some ill-thought practical joke. He is to report to detention for the next month along with Mr. Potter as punishment._

_Minerva McGonagall, Prof. Of Transfiguration, Head of Gryffindor House_

Sirius ran his hand over the old detention slip with a melancholic smile. He’d been forced to present it every night for the next month when he and James went to Slughorn’s classroom to clean out the cauldrons. There was absolutely no conceivable way he would ever think of risking something like this, it was all he had left of those days. 

Sighing wistfully, he put the slip back into the drawer and rifled through the drawer once more until he finally came across something that _wasn’t_ a detention slip.

_HOW OGDEN’S THEOREM CAN BE APPLIED TO UNDERSTANDING THE FUTHARK RUNES_

_SIRIUS O. BLACK_

_ARITHMANCY_

_Professor’s Comments: Absolutely marvelous work, Mr. Black! I was so impressed with your work that I sent it to one of the leading scholars of Arithmancy Studies in all of Europe—Prof. Klaus Heissler—and he was utterly amazed at the fact that you actually discovered something previously unknown in the field. You have singlehandedly carved out a new angle to interrogate the meaning of these runes. Extremely well done!_

Ah, perfect—something useless. 

He took the paper out of the drawer and balled it up, walking back over to where Regulus stood by the landing still grabbing the back of his head and grimacing in discomfort. 

With a grimace of anxiety, he threw the paper at the staircase and watched in mute horror as it bounced back as if hitting a wall, caught fire, and promptly burned to ash on the floor. 

“Oh, no,” Sirius began pacing up and down the landing, frantically digging his fingers into his scalp. “No, no, no.”

“I want to know who taught her her first spell, I want to know who thought it as a good idea to teach that lunatic how to do even the most basic form of magic,” said Sirius to a still dumbfounded Regulus. “Because whoever it was—I hope that they’re suffering now, I hope that they suffer forever!”

* * *

In the drawing-room of Prewett House, Lucretia Black felt a shiver.

* * *

“Sirius,” Regulus put up his hands as if he was placating a wounded lion. “Calm down—“

“—Calm down?!” Sirius shouted, his voice noticeably higher in pitch. “That crazy bitch locks us in this landing with the kind of wards used to keep DRAGONS from flying too far, and you want me to calm down?! How could you—“

“Shhh!”

He opened his mouth to tell Regulus where he could shove his unwanted pleas for silence, but surprisingly his little brother had grown much bolder in the past twenty years as he walked up to him without any fear and shushed him even louder, shooting him a severe look eerily similar to their mother. 

It was then that Sirius heard the sound of footsteps getting closer and closer, until finally through the railing he saw a familiar flash of long white hair and flowy periwinkle robes. 

“Oh, thank God!”

He almost rushed to the steps before remembering the wall of fire his mother built and instead settled for greeting his headmaster with a frantic wave. 

“Sir!”

“Sirius.” Dumbledore nodded at him.

Sirius almost alerted Dumbledore to the presence of the wards, but it was clear that the far older, far wiser man could detect their presence without turning his hand into something resembling a juicy lamb chop. 

He moved closer to the wards with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, looking at what would—to the naked eye—appear to be nothing more than thin air, with a concentration and an understanding that made one realize why the man was considered such a legend in the first place. 

After a few seconds, Dumbledore’s eyes widened almost comically upon the realization of what the wards were, then settled into a look of understanding and something else that could almost be mistaken for amusement. 

“I see your mother has got right to work,” said Dumbledore, and this time his amusement was absolutely clear. 

“Yes, she’s locked both Reg and me up here for,” He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “God knows what reason. That woman’s motives have long since stopped being clear to me.”

“I don’t think one needs the assistance of God to realize why she’s done this, Sirius,” Dumbledore replied, sagely assessing him through his half-moon spectacles. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” he shook his head, “Can you take them down?”

The older man tipped his head to the side as if considering it, but shook his head. “I would not wish to ruffle any feathers just after we’ve begun our partnership. I think it best for the order if you were—for the first few days at least—to obey your mother in all things.” He smirked. “Besides, these wards are quite formidable—I suspect even _I_ may not be able to take them down.”

Sirius felt the stone in his stomach burrow itself even deeper. “ _What_?”

“Entertain her whims, her wishes—interact with her respectfully. That’s all you need to do, until we have our first meeting here. Then,” he winked at him, playfully. “We can see if there’s some leeway for you.”

“Sir—You can’t, you can’t seriously be entertaining this?” Sirius said, waving his hands in frustration. “I understood headquarters, I even understood keeping me locked here for the time being, but—confining me and Regulus to a _landing_? What’s next—do you plan to get her a bejeweled leash so she can take me out on walks?!”

“Sirius,” said Dumbledore, voice carrying a tone of slight warning yet never once losing its trademark calm. “You asked me once long ago: If there were anything you could do to help out the order, all I needed to do was ask,” He leaned forward. “Tell me, did that only apply to dueling, chasing, and espionage?” 

Sirius cottoned on to the veiled accusation almost immediately, and he was almost knocked backward from the pang of shame and hurt he felt. 

“No, sir,” he replied, voice shaking slightly from the shock. 

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly but nodded after a few seconds. “I didn’t think so—you’re not the type to break promises or do things halfway. You’re one of our greatest assets, no one is denying that. All I am asking here is that you be civil to your mother for a few days. I hope that’s not too much.”

He exhaled deeply, hanging his head. “No sir, it isn’t. I’ll be,” he clenched his jaw, “ _polite to my mother_.”

The older man clapped his hands together. “Excellent!” He turned to Regulus, smile still in place. “Regulus, I do hope you wouldn’t mind meeting with me soon to clear up a few matters. Your grandfather has told me some, but not all, of your predicament. I should like to hear it from the source.” 

“Of course, sir.”

“Wonderful. I’m very glad to see you’re well, Regulus—you gave us all quite the fright.”

Regulus merely nodded, pursing his lips awkwardly and looking as if he wished to be anywhere else.

With a few more polite acknowledgments and nods of encouragement, the old headmaster finally took his leave. 

The silence that followed his last step out of Grimmauld Place was almost painfully uncomfortable. 

That was, until Regulus—shockingly—broke it.

“So,” he said, fidgeting with his hands. “Would you like to do anything?”

"Oh, yes, Reg—brilliant, How's about we play _exploding snap_?" Sirius asked, sarcastically.

Regulus responded with an uncertain shrug.

Before Sirius could scoff and tell his brother that they were both grown men in their mid-thirties and not first years anymore, he was hit on the head with the painful realization that he really had nothing better to do. 

Sirius sighed, running a hand over his face. “Let’s go in my room—I’ve definitely got a set of the cards somewhere.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's almost been two months and this chapter is short. My computer kinda broke there, plus this chapter was a bit of a slog to get through since it's more of a transition. I promise, the next one will be longer, and there'll be much more going on. Hint: a certain family of riled up redheads and their muggleborn friend will be moving in...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga dines with her sons and evaluates her situation, Regulus is given a lesson on muggle music by his older brother, Sirius welcomes the Weasleys to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and Hermione enjoys a spirited conversation with a certain crotchety old man.

A battle was raging.

This was a different type of battle, however. There were no hexes or curses, no explosions or fires, no screams or cries. 

Instead, there was the soft clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur to pass the potatoes. 

The weapons being used weren’t wands—how could they be, after two of the belligerents had had theirs taken away? Instead, all sides were armed with sterling cutlery embossed with their family crest, as well as the finest antique china one could find this side of the continent. 

This was how Walburga saw things at their nightly dinner—a constant struggle for power. 

The last week adjusting to her boys being back under her roof was difficult—she had lived alone for so long she had lost the well-bred hospitality that had once come so naturally to her. But, she found her way once more, like a retired violinist who hadn’t picked up their instrument in years: First—tentative plucking. Then—soft strokes with the bow, and before long—fluidly playing their way through Paganini as if the skill had never been abandoned in the first place. 

In her case—the results weren’t quite as lovely as a violinist’s would be. Smooth tones from a Stradivarius translated to petulant screaming from her eldest, and the soft plucking of a Guarneri translated to insufferable silence from her youngest. Still, Walburga knew that for the first time in close to twenty years, she was firmly ensconced back into the maddening state of maternity. 

“So,” came the voice of Regulus, still not daring to look Walburga in the eye. “H-How was your day today, mother?” 

Walburga did her best to keep her voice level—her youngest’s absconding was still very much a sore point between them. “It was fine,” she stabbed her fork into her salad more forcefully than necessary. “I met your aunt and your grandfather for tea.”

Letting Lucretia in on the fact that both of her nephews were in Grimmauld Place, very much alive, had been hotly debated by Walburga and Arcturus. Walburga, as much as she cared for her oldest friend, did not think it wise to inform a renowned gossip on information meant to be top secret. Arcturus, however, insisted that his daughter would remain loyal to the family above all else, and would not even think to betray this information to anyone. In the end, he won out.

Though the tension was palpable when they met in the solarium at Neptune House—as was expected since Arcturus and Lucretia had not spoken to one another for well over a decade—that quickly gave way to shock when they informed her of their present circumstances. 

“She’d like to see the both of you soon.”

What sounded like a fork clattering onto the china came from her right side, and when she looked up she saw her eldest with a look on his face that could only be described as aghast. 

“You told Lucretia?!”

“Your grandfather did,” Walburga replied, calmly. 

Sirius groaned in response, lowering his head onto the table in despair. 

“I can’t believe you told her! The bloody woman doesn’t know how to keep her trap shut for more than five minutes and you tell her about us?!”

“Your aunt would _never_ betray family,” Walburga replied, not completely sure of it herself. “Either way it’s done—she’ll be coming to see the both of you on Monday.”

“I haven’t seen aunt Lucretia in years,” said Regulus, meekly. “It should be nice to see her again.”

“Don’t count on it being _nice_ ,” She glared at him, any semblance of patience forgotten—It helped that he looked so like Alphard, as it made it much easier to stay angry with him. “She had more than a few choice words for you once we told her the truth of your _death_.”

Regulus winced, sinking deeper into his chair, while Sirius exchanged a look of brotherly sympathy with him, still slouched over the table. 

That needed to be remedied. 

“Ow!” Sirius rubbed his lower back, at last sitting up straight. “What the bloody hell was that about?!”

“You’ve been away from us for far too long,” Walburga took a sip of her sherry, eyeing him cooly over the brim of her goblet. “Your posture needs work.” 

“So you hex me?!”

She snorted. “Oh, do spare me the hysterics, Sirius Orion—it was a stinging hex, nothing more. Unless you want to pitch another fit like the one you did with your grandfather.”

Sirius blinked, struck silent by the rejoinder. “What?” He replied, dumbly. 

“You heard me perfectly well,” she said, evenly. “Your grandfather told me all about the way you comported yourself when that wretch Dumbledore was here. Of course, I expected impertinence—I did not expect you to actually _weep_.”

Sirius proceeded to stammer indignantly like the child he was at the information—no doubt her eldest was ashamed at his behavior and wanted to save face.

Pride came naturally to Blacks. After all, one doesn’t grow up being told they’re utterly singular among even the higher echelon of pureblood wizards and not walk away with a large amount of it.

“That is not what happened!” Said Sirius, much to her disappointment. Did he always have to be so stubborn? “First, I did not _weep_ —I got, understandably, upset when that decrepit old crypt keeper called me a _deplorable, spiteful little deadweight_ and told me he would’ve _gladly let me rot in Azkaban_ had Regulus not gone away.”

Walburga dropped her fork in shock, the loud clattering of the silverware cutting through the tense silence that settled immediately after Sirius’s admission. The shock, as it always did, quickly made way for the much more familiar sensation of anger.

“He did _what_?” She asked, voice so low she could barely hear herself.

“Yeah,” said Sirius, emboldened by the state she was in. “And it was all in front of Dumbledore to top it off!”

Now Walburga was breathing through her nostrils to help control the fury coursing through her. Of course, she’d said things to Sirius in the past that one could consider hurtful—perhaps thrown a vase or an ashtray that she shouldn’t have—but she was his _mother_. She had that right, she’d given him life after all. By what right did Arcturus _dare_ to speak that way about one of her children? And in front of an outsider, no less?

She took a deep breath, and, remembering herself and her surroundings, decided that any cathartic destruction could wait once she got to her rooms. “That man had _no right_ to speak to you in that manner,” she said, stabbing her fork through the last of her salad with a loud crunching sound. “However, you’re a Black, as well as my son, Sirius Orion. No matter what horrible things he says to you, do not let a word of it make you doubt yourself. I may have shamed the family with an impertinent blood traitor and a mealy-mouthed child who stammers his way through confrontation, but if there’s one thing I know it’s that I have _never_ raised a weakling.” 

Sirius stared at her with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she was defending him—part of her was hurt by that, but she brushed it aside. Now there was plenty of time to re-establish a bond between them. 

It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be. 

They settled into a silence that was not as tense, yet still uncomfortable after that. Kreacher cleared their salad and brought them their third course of poached salmon with mousseline sauce. 

It had taken time for Walburga to decide whether or not that odious traitor would be allowed to continue in service to the family—it certainly hadn’t helped that he’d run from her when she’d attempted to punish him—but ultimately, Arcturus convinced her to keep him on. 

_‘Now is not the time to be discarding loyal servants willy-nilly,’_ he’d said to her, _‘and Kreacher, repugnant though he is, is loyal. The pathetic old rag was merely following his orders, Walburga—you can’t fault him for that. Blame your idiot son.’_

No, she supposed she couldn’t fault him for it. Though she still couldn’t bring herself to forgive him. It certainly helped that he’d seen fit to punish himself so severely—He was absolutely covered in bandages. Sirius had joked that now he _truly_ looked like a mummy. 

She’d chuckled at that—it was difficult not to. Her eldest had inherited her devastating wit, after all. 

“Oi!” Came Sirius’s voice, snapping her out of her thoughts. “What the bloody hell is this about?"

Both she and Regulus looked over to what he was pointing at—his own plate, which had, per her instruction, been loaded with an additional fillet of salmon as well as an extra heap of cream sauce. 

“It’s your food,” she replied, deadpan. 

He glared at her, peevishly. “No—I mean—why the hell do I get more salmon than you two? I’m not that hungry.”

“Well, you will eat it either way, Sirius Orion. I told Kreacher to give you extra—you’re far too thin.”

Sirius sputtered, indignantly. “You-you've absolutely got to be _joking_!”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“You’re _fattening me up_?!”

“Those aren’t the exact words I would use—we’ll stop once you reach a suitable weight—but yes. I suppose that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now eat.”

He scoffed, pushing his plate away. “Fat chance.”

She responded with a blasé shrug as she cut into her own salmon. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose I can have Kreacher send it over to Arcturus. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled when he hears why he’s being given two fillets of cream-soaked salmon—because the grandson he already sees as a petulant boy _won’t eat his supper.”_

Her eldest’s eyes widened to an almost comical degree, then promptly narrowed into a childish glare directed at her, but she knew she’d won once he begrudgingly picked up his utensils and began tucking into his meal. 

As they all ate the third course in silence, she looked over to her right side and observed her youngest eating. Regulus’s impeccable table manners hadn’t changed a bit in all the years he’d been away—he still took his time eating, small bites as opposed to his brother’s boorishly large forkfuls. Her youngest had taken after Orion in that regard—well, almost every regard, truly. Sirius got the looks, Regulus the character. 

No, she reminded herself. He hadn’t got his character.

Orion would have _never_ abandoned the family the way Regulus had. 

Still, though she was furious with him, she was also curious about what exactly he’d done all these years. Throughout their weekly meals, she’d surmised that he’d been living in a small Italian village in the Apennines—magical, _thank God_ —and owned some sort of bookstore. Though the idea of a Black working the counter of some obscure shop was rather distasteful, it was definitely far from the worst outcome she’d imagined for him over there. 

She’d almost feared he’d been cavorting with muggles, doing some sort of horrifically monotonous manual labor like putting the caps on—what were those wretched things called— _toothpaste tubes_?

Walburga shivered involuntarily before brushing away the thought.

“So,” she said, as Kreacher cleared away their third course and brought them the fourth course of lemon sorbet, a palate cleanser before the meat course. “Regulus, do regale us with some of your tales from your time on the Mediterranean.”

Regulus, who’d been comforting the elf with a pat on the head it didn’t deserve while he was served his sorbet, started at being called upon. “W-What?”

Walburga took a lengthy sip of her prosecco, enjoying how her youngest squirmed under her gaze. “Tales—from your… _sojourn_ in Italy. Why you must have some?”

Regulus fiddled with his spoon, nervously. “Er—I—I don’t know, I—“

“—Oh come on, Reg,” came the slightly slurred voice of her eldest as he shoveled a spoonful of lemon sorbet into his mouth. “Say something, else the old bat’ll never be satisfied.”

Walburga narrowed her eyes in his direction, and upon eyeing the source of the disruption—a half-emptied bottle of pinot noir (who on earth has a red wine with lemon sorbet? The wine _completely_ overpowers the taste)—promptly dealt with it. 

“Oi!” Said Sirius, voice higher in pitch as he attempted to pour himself more wine from the now emptied bottle. “What gives?”

“You’ve had enough for one night,” Walburga replied, voice brokering no room for argument. “Unless _you’d_ like to tell us some stories of what it is you’ve been up to these past few years?” 

Sirius snorted. “Me? In case it’s escaped your notice, _mother dearest_ , _I_ was locked up in a cell for the past decade-and-a-half while this one,” he gestured with a spoonful of sorbet to a wide-eyed Regulus, “was taking pleasure barges down the Tiber. Keep interrogating him, why don’t you?”

Regulus sputtered. “I was—I wasn’t—I was _not_ taking _p-pleasure barges_ ,” he spat out the last two words. 

“ _Pshhh_ , How do we know that you weren’t?”

“Yes, Regulus,” Walburga said, tipping her head to the side, inquisitively. “How _do_ we know?”

Regulus colored, much as he used to whenever one caught him alongside Sirius in some act of mischief or another. This time it was different, however. 

This time the mischief was his own. 

“I just—ran my store, and…that was it, really.”

Walburga narrowed her eyes, not convinced by a mile, but decided to drop the matter for the time being. 

It wouldn’t do to spend the rest of _this_ meal interrogating her youngest. 

She had plenty of other meals to do so. 

* * *

“So, what was it that you were doing exactly?” Asked Sirius, stroking his chin at the trap Regulus had set for him. 

Regulus looked up from the wizard’s chessboard, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean last night, at dinner. When mum was asking you what you did in Italy? Was that really it? Did you just…run your store?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t have been everything.”

“It was,” replied Regulus, wanting to avoid the topic of the conversation altogether. 

“Oh come on!” Said Sirius, looking at Regulus incredulously. “You seriously can’t expect me to believe that you deserted the death eaters, betrayed Voldemort, faked your death, and proceeded to only run a bookstore for the next sixteen years. I know you’re… _you_ and all, but still.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Asked Regulus, slightly offended at the implication in his brother's words. 

Sirius snorted, only serving to fuel his offense. “Oh seriously Reg, do you need me to spell it out for you? All you did the eighteen years I knew you was play it safe. You were _boring_. Now you’re here telling us that you betrayed the most powerful dark wizard in history but all you did these past few years is run a damn bookstore.” 

“That’s not… _all I did_ ,” Regulus replied, weakly. 

“Then what else did you do?”

While Regulus was certainly not going to tell Sirius about his various romances over the years (he should be able to keep at least _something_ for himself), he figured that he could indulge him in other areas, as well as prove to his older brother that he wasn’t the bore he thought he was. 

“I watched a film,” Regulus said, lifting his chin. 

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Alright, that’s certainly unexpected. Which one?”

“Airplane.”

“Don’t know it.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it—I think the humor rather escaped me.”

“Alright,” Sirius nodded in mock contrition. “One _slightly_ daring thing—what else?”

“I rode in a car.”

Sirius scoffed. “Oh please, runt, that’s nothing—even the sodding _Malfoys_ have cars.”

“They’re enchanted—“

“—Barely any difference, next,” Sirius waved his hand, dismissively. 

Regulus attempted to think of other things, but he came to the embarrassing realization that besides the bookstore, and an odd film here and there, there was little to be said in terms of things he’d done. 

“Please tell me you at least…I don’t know….went to a concert or something.” 

“Oh no,” Regulus shook his head, face wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t really even listen to muggle music.”

Sirius’s jaw dropped open. “Are you serious? Tell me you’re saying this for a lark.”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

"I can't believe you've never listened to muggle music!" Sirius said, oddly indignant.

Regulus blushed, self-conscious. "I didn't say I _never_ listened to it—it just isn’t something I indulge in often.” 

Sirius sputtered, "Bloody hell, Reg! Every pureblood toff I knew back then listened to _some_ muggle music, at least. Hell, I even caught Bellatrix— _Bellatrix of all people_ —listening to _The Doors_ once!"

Regulus furrowed his brow— _what in God's name were the doors?_

The question must've shown on his face, as Sirius clucked his tongue, disapprovingly—in a manner eerily similar to their mother—stood up from his spot on the bed, and began to shuffle through his cedar shelf for a record.

"Of all the things, Reg," Sirius said, rummaging through his collection. "I would've expected some Sinatra or other old people music, not nothing at all. Merlin, even Mum and Dad listened to muggle music."

Regulus's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's—that's absurd! Mother and Father would've never—"

Sirius cut him off with a sharp laugh. "Oh, this is rich. Don't tell me you think those two never touched anything muggle. Mum reads Wordsworth and Dad only listened to Bach and Charlie Parker." He turned around, facing Regulus with his finger firmly pointed towards him. "Allow me to let you in on a secret, Reg. Purebloods are sodding hypocrites. As long as something is enjoyable or beneficial to them in some way, they couldn't give a damn where it came from. The Malfoys and their cars, Dad with his music, Our family's collective obsession with Shakespeare..." 

Regulus shifted awkwardly as Sirius continued his sharp lambasting of their family's hypocrisy. True, he had known and accepted that to some degree purebloods were hypocritical in their beliefs, but to see that extended to a family he still felt an intense loyalty to was not exactly within his comfort zone just yet. 

Thankfully, Sirius's tirade was stopped when he seemed to find something suitable to listen to.

"Here," he pulled out a sleeve, "Try this on for size."

Regulus took the record in his hands and peered at the cover, blinking at the sheer bohemia exhibited on it. There were four men, all dressed up in very colorful military uniforms, surrounded by an array of figures that looked as if they'd been cut out of various magazines.

He frowned, eyeing his older brother skeptically. "I don't know if I'll like this, Sirius."

Sirius snorted. "Come on, Reg. Even Cissy loved those four," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I even caught her crying when they split."

His brother sniggered—and it was so absurdly immature that Regulus couldn't help but crack a smile. 

He put on the record and found that while he enjoyed a few things—it was simply far too grand and experimental for him. The music reminded him of that one time he had been given a very oddly tasting biscuit at a party by an acquaintance, and he ended up staring at his hand in awe for five hours convinced it was made of gelatin. 

Regulus shook his head after the third song ended. "This is far too much for me, Sirius."

Sirius huffed—mumbling something under his breath that was no doubt a childish jab at him—and began rummaging through his record stack again.

Regulus frowned when he saw a cover with a man (woman?) that had a lighting bolt painted across his—her—their face. 

"Who's that?" 

Sirius furrowed his brow, then looked down and let out a chuckle. "If you thought that," he gestured to the record on the turntable, "was too much, then _this one_ will give you a bloody heart attack."

He scowled petulantly at his brother—though Sirius had already begun rummaging for another record. 

"Aha!" Sirius crowed, triumphantly. "These two are, personally, too much of a bore for me—I prefer the heavier stuff, but Andi loved them, so perhaps you will too.”

Regulus examined the cover—this one looked decidedly more normal, the two men were walking down an empty trail, wearing long, sensible coats, and was far less intimidating than the last one. 

Sirius put on the record without so much as a word of consent from Regulus—and just as he was about to protest, a soft acoustic guitar followed by a beautiful set of harmonies stunned him into silence.

A victorious grin spread across Sirius's face at the reaction the record garnered, "I knew it!”

“This is amazing,” said Regulus, as soon as the last song on the record finished. “Who are they?”

“A pair of New Yorkers who got big in the sixties off of the folk scene,” Sirius replied, still rummaging through his stack of records for other selections, occasionally picking one out, mumbling approvingly to himself, and putting it into a small stack. 

Once he finished, he took the stack of records and handed it to Regulus. “Consider this a care package,” he smirked. “All the muggle music that you missed out on—well, up to ’76—fine-tuned to your tastes.”

Regulus filed through the various records—one depicted a group of men feeding various farm animals, another showed the same four men from the experimental record, though much more sensibly dressed, one was just a man and woman walking hand-in-hand down a city street, and the last was—

He started when he saw the cover. One of the only muggle records he’d ever listened to—and it hadn’t been because he’d sat through it intending to. That ever-familiar woman at the window, the same old cat at her feet. It took him back to every sleepy Sunday afternoon, every Friday night spent drinking cheap wine and dancing in his cramped sitting room, every pang of jealousy and uncertainty and boredom that had come their way.

She’d always loved Carole King. 

To say that Regulus hadn’t thought about Anna since she’d left would be a bald-faced lie. After he’d left his family behind for what he thought was forever, she’d appeared almost out of nowhere, as if he’d been given another chance at life, at love. 

Anna was the first—the first date, the first kiss, the first sleepless night, and the first to break his heart. He’d thought—with that sweet naivety those in the throes of a first love often do—that it would last forever, that he’d found a new start. 

He should’ve known better. Love wasn’t meant for people like him, not after everything he’d gone through. Come to think of it, it wasn’t meant for people like her either. 

She had been running from her past just as much as he was. 

“Yoo-hoo!” Sirius’s voice snapped him out of his melancholy thoughts. “Earth to Regulus!”

Regulus furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” 

Sirius snorted. “Never mind, you were just a bit spaced out for a few seconds there.” He smirked, devilishly. “Carole King catch your fancy, does she?” 

Regulus’s eyes widened. “Shut up,” he replied, pushing Sirius to the floor as he laughed obnoxiously, though unfortunately this only made Sirius laugh harder, especially after he noticed the faint blush on his younger brother’s cheeks. 

“Ah, Reg,” Sirius said after his laughter died down. “Ever the innocent, aren’t you?” 

This time Regulus simply shrugged and stayed silent, pretending to sort through his new records as only one thought ran through his mind. 

_‘Ever the innocent, aren’t you?’_

Would that that were true.

* * *

It had been four days since Sirius had given Regulus the musical care package. 

Already he was regretting it. 

The runt—much to Sirius’s chagrin—had taken to that damned folk duo like a duck to water. _For merlin’s sake_ —how many times could one person listen to _Kathy’s Song?_

The other records got a decent amount of airplay—especially that old Carole King one McKinnon had given him, oddly enough—but it was as if Regulus delighted in being depressed. After four days of _Sounds of Silence_ on rotation, Sirius found himself missing his first love, often tearing up at the mere thought of her. 

The problem was that he’d never _had_ a bloody first love, to begin with, that’s how much that sodding album had warped his mind at this point. 

Blessedly, right before Sirius was about to finally snap and burn Regulus’s records _ala_ Margaret White, he heard the front door open and close, which was promptly followed by sounds of hushed bickering and stern scoldings that told him the Weasleys had finally arrived. 

Though Sirius wasn’t exactly sure of how his sociopathic grandfather and insane mother would be able to coexist with the Weasleys—a family he’d heard both of them describe as ‘provincial degenerates’—he was more than ready to have someone that wasn’t a blood relative (well, a _close_ blood relative) to talk to.

With a groan, he got up from his bed and went down the stairs, arriving at the landing of the grand staircase in the foyer watching as Molly Weasley scolded her bickering children, Hermione struggled with Crookshanks in her arms, and the portrait of old Ophiuchus scrunched his face up at the sight of them all, saying something in old French that—judging from his tone—no doubt conveyed his disgust. 

“Oi!” shouted Sirius, raising his voice so he could be heard over the din. 

Once Molly noticed him, she was able to silence the rest of her family with a loud 'SHHHHHHH' and they all turned their eyes up to him.

Sirius clapped his hands together once he'd got their attention. “Everyone—welcome to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Now, as much as I love the energy—God knows this mausoleum needs some of it—I’d advise you all to listen to Molly and keep the volume to a minimum, we’re not alone.” 

“We aren’t?” Asked Hermione, tilting her head to the side. 

“No, you're not," came a familiarly cold voice from behind him, and Sirius found himself grimacing instinctively. Couldn't Mum have waited to continue her favorite pastime of traumatizing children?

The eyes of the crowd that had assembled in the foyer all turned to the top of the stairs, where his mother was standing, adorned in black from the top of her chignon all the way to the hemline of her dress. 

The look in her eyes bore nothing short of utter contempt. 

Sirius cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Everyone, this is my mother, Walb—“ he stopped when he saw her eyes narrow at the overly familiar form of address, “— _Mrs. Black_.”

“Your mother?” Asked Ron, looking up at the figure of his mother, dumbly. No doubt shocked at the fact that—much to his chagrin—aside from a noticeable gray streak that ran through the side of her head, she’d barely aged a day since he’d left the house. 

“Yes, my mother. This is my parent’s house, which my family has so graciously agreed to rent out to the order.” 

“Rent?” Asked Hermione. 

“Yes, for the price of one Sirius,” he replied bitterly, ignoring the heat emanating from his mother’s glare. “But you needn’t concern yourselves with all that, all I ask of you is to avoid going further up than the third floor, everything from there is my mother’s and brother’s territory.”

“You have a brother?” Asked Ron.

Sirius nodded, instinctively looking up towards the stairs to the top floor where Regulus was most likely still depressing himself with Simon and Garfunkel records. "He’s also got himself caught up in this mess, though I’d advise avoiding Regulus.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a stuffy Slytherin prat.” 

“Don’t speak that way about your brother, Sirius Orion.”

He scowled at her voice, almost having forgotten she was there due to how oddly quiet she was being, though ultimately decided to let it go as starting a row with his mother on the stairs was not the wisest course of action if he wanted to live long enough to see Harry.

“Anyhow,” he continued, “I would _strongly_ advise following that rule,” he leveled the purportedly mischievous twins with a serious look. “As my mother is not one to appreciate rule-breaking, and she has a penchant for less-than-ethical wards.” 

The children all looked at each other warily, their gazes occasionally darting up to the imposing figure of Walburga Black, though immediately looking away once they caught sight of her harsh stare. 

“That’s all, right mum?”

She turned her head toward him, though kept her eyes trained on the new arrivals, much to their discomfort. “Yes,” she replied, dragging out the word. “Kreacher!” 

The elf appeared instantly, and he heard Hermione’s horrified gasp at the sight of him—he was still mostly covered in bandages from his self-punishment, though he had admittedly improved enough to have the ones covering his head removed. 

She sneered down at the elf, clearly still angry with him for the whole Regulus fiasco. “I should like to take tea in the sunroom now.” 

The elf bowed deeply. “Of course, mistress. Kreacher lives to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” 

With a snap, he disapparated—and with one final glare directed at their house guests, Walburga turned her nose up, placed one delicate hand on the railing, and haughtily ascended back up the stairs. 

Sirius turned back to the Weasleys, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. 

“So—who wants to go see their rooms?” 

* * *

Her professors often commended Hermione during her first year for her ability to adapt to the magical world so quickly. 

And adapt she had. In fact, she’d done more than adapt, she’d helped fight a basilisk, broken out an escaped convict, witnessed wonders and horrors beyond imagining. 

So then, why in Merlin’s name was Grimmauld Place so unsettling? 

Hermione simply couldn’t help but feel incredibly disturbed. First, there was Sirius’s mother, quite possibly the most terrifying woman she’d ever met, then that poor house-elf who looked as if he’d been beaten near to death, the decapitated heads of his predecessors that adorned the walls, the dreary victorian wallpaper that was peeling all around, the sneering portraits of beautiful people extending back to the 11th century looking at her with that familiar look she’d seen in every other purebloods’ eyes. The look that said that they knew what she was, the look that said everything she’d spent all her time in the wizarding world trying to ignore. 

_You don’t belong here._

_Outsider._

_Filth._

It made her uncomfortable beyond words, so Sirius, in an awkward but sincere attempt to be kind, advised her to seek out the library on the first floor. 

_‘None of those sodding dinosaurs will bother you there. The only one who ever goes there is old Hercules, and due to a rather unfortunate accident during a joust with some royal prat or other, he can’t see or speak.’_

Now, here she was, stopped in front of two twin walnut doors that looked as if they’d seen much better days. 

With a firm grip on her wand, she twisted the knob and pushed the door open, stepping into the room warily.

Hermione scanned her surroundings, mildly shocked at the sheer size of the library: It spanned two floors, with the first housing three rows of bookshelves that almost reached the ceiling.

The second was more of a balcony than a proper floor, though it still contained an expansive row of bookshelves, all of them filled to the brim with tomes that practically screamed dark magic. According to Sirius, it used to be a bedroom—called the blue room—though his grandfather had had it destroyed and used the space to expand the library as rarely anyone ever used it.

The bookshelves themselves looked to be made of fine wood—though some of the edges appeared to be slightly rotting due to neglect—and they were all intricately carved in the baroque style. Past them, there seemed to be some sort of sitting area, as she could make out the sight of an old chaise that looked like it belonged in her grandmother’s house, as well as a coffee table. 

All in all, despite the intimidating nature of the room with its dreary victorian coloring and dark opulence—it looked to be a perfect place to research. A nice, quiet afternoon was what she needed to lift her spirits.

Walking into the first row, she scanned each of the tomes she walked past, hoping to find something to gain some information on her new home for the rest of the summer holiday, as well as its inhabitants—Sirius had been hesitant and uncomfortable to give out any more details than the fact that his family were wealthy purebloods, Slytherins (until him), and that most of them were ‘smarmy, arrogant berks’. 

As she moved along, her eyes focused in on a thick, leathery spine that read: 

_AN HISTORIE OF THE NOBLESTE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK, (1066-1558)_

Pulling it out from its place, Hermione brushed the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on its cover away and opened to the first page, where she was greeted by the face of the handsome young warrior whose portrait hung in the foyer.

_OPHIUCHUS BLACK I (1038-1085)_

_Ophiuchus Black was born Ophiuchus Devereaux, natural son of Lord Odo Theroux and Lady Theodrate Aubert. He was raised primarily by his mother, whose family were resentful of Lord Odo’s dismissal of him due to his baseborn status and sought to have him proclaim Ophiuchus as heir to his lands—reparations for sullying their daughter. However, a son was born to Odo through marriage, superseding Ophiuchus and angering the already outraged Auberts beyond comprehension._

_Ophiuchus, however, proved to be amenable to his younger half-brother over the years—seeking to quell rumors of any ill feelings he held by seeking him out and proclaiming his loyalty to him as heir. The young heir, Arnoul, gladly accepted his brother’s loyalty, going so far as to invite him to a hunt meant to be held before his wedding to his first cousin, Margaret._

_Unfortunately, tragedy struck, and the young Arnoul died during the hunt under unclear circumstances, prompting whispers from the nobles that it was Ophiuchus himself who had slain his half-brother, though these claims are unsubstantiated._

_Nevertheless, despite the whispers, the grief-stricken Lord Odo—who himself passed away soon after the incident due to a sudden, mysterious illness—was left with no choice but to name Ophiuchus as heir, and gave him Margaret as wife to seal his legitimacy._

_Ophiuchus, though now in the position he’d always coveted, quickly grew bored and restless. He wished for much more than minor nobility on the outskirts of Normandy, so when Duke William announced his intentions to claim the English crown, he answered the call, eagerly offering his services. Duke William, who had heard tales of Ophiuchus’s prolific knowledge and skill in dark magic, as well as his shrewd political mind, graciously accepted._

_They sailed across the channel, engaging army after army, each battle ending in glorious victory. Ophiuchus quickly grew a fearsome reputation among the Saxon armies and came to be known by many names: The Demon of Hastings, The Laughing Storm, and Ophiuchus the Black—a moniker he enjoyed so much that he would soon adopt it as his new family name so that the terror he struck in the hearts of the English would never be forgotten by his descendants, as well as those who dared trespass against them._

“Reading, are we?” 

Hermione jumped at the voice, almost dropping the heavy tome on the floor, though blessedly caught it before it could fall out of her hands. 

She looked up to see the face of an old man—Graying black hair, steel grey eyes, thick mustache, and a sneer present on his face. 

“Who—who are you?” She managed to croak out, trying to hide the fact that she was extremely frightened, and judging by his raised eyebrow, failing miserably. 

“I should be asking you that question,” He replied, his voice somehow even more intimidating than his appearance. “As you’re the one who’s currently loitering in my library.” 

Hermione gulped. “You’re Sirius’s…grandfather?”

He sneered even harder at the mention of Sirius. “ _Unfortunately_.”

“Oh—I, er, forgive me,” she blurted out, hands shaking. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here, I’ll just,” she pointed vaguely in the direction of the door, “be on my way.” 

Before she could begin to slide the book back into its place, his cold voice stopped her in her tracks. 

“Now wait _just a moment_.” 

Hermione turned to him, and she noticed his eyes were firmly on the heavy tome in her hands. 

“What is your name?” 

“Hermione Granger.” 

He grimaced at the, no doubt, unfamiliar surname. A man like him would undoubtedly know every pureblood family from here to India, however small. 

There it was—that same expression that all the portraits had. 

Disgust. 

She wanted to leave before he could call her filth, before he could berate her for her presence as if she was some insect he could step on. 

The old man surprised her, however, by asking her another question. “What were you reading?” 

She blinked, before pointing dumbly to the book in her hand. 

Mr. Black rolled his eyes. “Not the book, girl—What part were you reading?” 

“Oh!” She replied, surprised. “Ophiuchus.”

He nodded in what almost appeared to be approval. “A fascinating man, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Hermione nodded. 

“From a bastard boy with nothing to his name nipping away at his mother’s skirts to the closest confidante of the King of England.” 

“He was…er, quite ruthless, wasn’t he?” She asked, warily. “It doesn’t say it outright, but…I’m quite certain he murdered his brother and his father.” 

To her shock, he almost smiled, as if amused by her apprehension. “Ruthlessness is an undervalued trait with you Gryffindors—you _are_ a Gryffindor, I take it?” 

“How can you tell?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I can _always_ tell. Anyhow, his methods may have been less than savory, but if you truly want to achieve your goals, you must be willing to do anything and everything to see them through. And well, they were savage times. Savage times breed savage men.” 

She tipped her head, not quite agreeing with the point but acknowledging it.

“So…why are _you_ here?” Hermione asked, after a few seconds of rather uncomfortable silence. 

Mr. Black raised an eyebrow, haughtily. “Not that it’s any of your business as it is _my_ house,” She reddened at the scolding. “But I came here to pick up some reading material of my own. I was of the mind that the library was the only place in this house that would go thoroughly undisturbed by Gryffindors.” 

Ignoring the snipe at her house, she looked down at his hands to see that he was indeed clutching a large book in his right hand, and she blinked at the familiar text. 

“The Egyptian Book of the Dead?” She asked, looking up just in time to see the slight surprise on his face. 

“Yes—a _first edition_.” He smirked at the way her eyes widened. “Extremely rare and extremely expensive. I gifted it to my son for his birthday many years ago, though I’ve decided to take it back to my estate in the country as it clearly won’t be getting any use here.” 

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Sirius’s father didn’t like it?” 

His jaw clenched. “Sirius’s father is dead.”

She could’ve smacked herself in the face for her stupidity. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Why? Did you kill him?” He asked, dryly. 

Hermione sputtered. “N—No!”

“Then what have you to be sorry for?” The old man turned his head to observe the bookcases around them. “I’ve always hated it when people apologize for things they had nothing to do with. Now, follow me, girl, I have something to show you.” 

Though she was confused, the tone in his voice brokered no room for argument, so she followed as he hobbled past the bookshelves with his cane, observing each one as if he was searching for a particular volume. 

“So, tell me girl, what are your opinions on the book of the dead?” 

“I—I think it’s fascinating. The rituals, the magic, they’re primitive compared to the current way it’s practiced, but still incredibly advanced for their time.” 

Mr. Black nodded, approvingly. “I agree. The ancient Egyptians were an intelligent people. Most of the magic contained in the book is, as you say, primitive, and quite useless to us today, but there is much one can glean when it comes to spellcraft and harnessing one’s magic from those pages.” 

“Of course. Most wizards tend to dismiss it as outdated and irrelevant, but there’s so much more to it than they think.” 

He snorted. “Most wizards are damned fools.” 

She chose to remain neutrally silent on that assertion, though she couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from lifting up slightly. 

Sirius’s grandfather stopped at a bookcase towards the end, examining it from the bottom to the top until his eyes focused on what he wanted. “There it is.” 

“There what is?” 

“What I’m looking for.” He put the stack of books in his hand on the side table nearest them, took out his wand from his coat pocket, and with a lazy, wordless flick he was gracefully lifted off the ground and rose almost to the ceiling. While suspended in midair, he gingerly plucked out a medium-sized, leather-bound book. Satisfied, he gave his wand another flick and descended just as easily as he ascended. 

“Here girl,” He held out the book he’d just retrieved to her. 

Hermione blinked in surprise, but she took the book from his hand and examined the cover. 

_MURD’R MOST FOUL: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF OPHIUCHUS BLACK I_

_(1038-1085)_

“That,” he answered before she could even ask, “Is an expansive, painstakingly researched look into Ophiuchus Black’s life. It is unadulterated, unfiltered, and unsanitized. None of that weak _‘those rumors are unsubstantiated’_ drivel that you no doubt read in the first one. Read it, see what you think.” 

Hermione couldn’t summon any words due to the sheer shock at the fact that he’d actually bothered to retrieve this for her. “Th—Thank you, Mr. Black.” 

Mr. Black nodded, then narrowed his eyes at her as if he were trying to recall something. “What was your name again, girl?”

“Hermione, sir.”

He raised his eyebrows. “After Queen Hermione, from A Winter’s Tale?”

She nodded. 

Mr. Black huffed, sounding almost pleased. “Well, your parents are cultured at the very least. I’ll be on my way.” 

Hermione frowned at the jibe against her lineage, she’d truly almost forgotten the fact that he was a staunch believer in blood supremacy during their conversation. 

Well, beliefs could be changed could they not? Certainly, this man was too intelligent to carry on believing something that didn’t make any sense. Besides, she’d never got a straight explanation from any pureblood on why they didn’t like her aside from slurs and sneers. Surely he could be more articulate than _Draco Malfoy._

“May I,” she gulped. “May I ask you a question, sir?”

The elder Black turned around and raised an eyebrow, and after a few seconds of considering it answered with a haughty nod.

“Why do you think muggleborns are inferior?”

He huffed, almost amusedly, much to Hermione’s chagrin. “Because they are,” he replied, straightforwardly. “Long wizarding lines have gifted the world with some of the most brilliant minds in our history. The Black family being just one out of a myriad of others,” he waved a hand and bowed his head, almost as if he was accepting praise, though none had even been given. “Our magical ability has shown to be stronger than any other group. We are raised not only to know of it, but to revere it. Magic is who we are, not a part of it. I presume you know something about the muggle science of biology? Genetics, specifically.”

Hermione blinked at the unexpected question but nodded nonetheless. “Yes, I do.” She furrowed her brow, “Do you?”

The old man snorted, “I do. Don’t act so shocked, girl,” he said, in response to her slack-jawed look. “I’ve bred horses since I was fifteen, and been published numerous times besides. One needs to know _some_ biology for that.”

“I...suppose.”

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat. “When two strong, fast horses mate, it is expected that they produce a strong, fast horse, is it not?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Very good,” he nodded in approval. “And why is that?”

“Because being strong and fast are both traits the parents carry, and thus it follows they’ll carry it on to their offspring. Like eye color, hair color, et cetera.”

“Exactly,” She detected a note of excitement in his voice, almost as if he’d been spoiling for a decent verbal sparring opponent. “So then, why doesn’t it follow that magical ability be passed on as well?”

Hermione almost scoffed. “Because magical ability is something that’s learned, not natural.”

“And why do you think this?”

“Because muggle-born witches and wizards are often among the brightest students at Hogwarts. They start school with a significant gap in knowledge, yet make up for it a hundredfold and often earn top grades.”

He chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. “Grades are not everything, girl—I say this as someone who was also top of his class, most of the schoolwork is mind-numbingly easy if you just keep notes. I knew many dullards in my day who also consistently earned O’s, as well as many geniuses who struggled to keep their grades above A's. Do you want to know what happens to most children with top grades?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice almost theatrically. “They disappear into the system, like everyone else.”

Hermione felt the burning of indignation in her chest, as well as a smidge of anxiety she cursed herself for. “You can’t seriously think that!”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about the ministers? The top officials?”

He scoffed, dismissively. “The only class Cornelius Fudge is at the top of is weight. Most of the top officials are purebloods, who were, for the most part, not top of their class. Besides, _they_ don’t matter either. I speak of the legendary wizards, every wizard that has ever accomplished something noteworthy has been pure-blooded or close to it.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “That ability, that ingenuity, comes from a long line of similarly brilliant individuals. Intelligence can be passed down, strength can be passed down, so I repeat: Why can’t magic?”

“You’re ignoring something.”

The elder Black leaned forward, intrigued. “What?”

“Me.”

He snorted. “You, girl—are, I admit, a highly capable individual, both in school and out, from what I’ve gathered during this conversation. But as with any rule, there are exceptions. You are one of them.”

Hermione looked the man straight in his unsettlingly pale eyes, chin up daringly. “Perhaps your rules are wrong then.”

He raised his eyebrows, a small smirk spreading across his face. “Careful girl,” he said, tone both warning and amused. “I enjoy you now, but careful.”

She flushed red at the slight warning and elected to back off the subject, since, decent conversation partner or not, Sirius’s grandfather was also bloody terrifying. 

_So much for that Gryffindor bravery,_ she chided herself. 

“Well then, this has been interesting, girl. You make for a much more riveting conversation partner than those dullards I call my grandsons, that’s for damn sure. Keep up with your reading, perhaps with time you’ll come to see why my point of view is correct.” 

He turned around and kept walking to the end, and just before he lifted his wand to apparate, Hermione felt the Gryffindor bravery rising back up again. 

“Or perhaps you’ll see that mine is,” she answered, slightly belated. 

Mr. Black froze, wand in mid-air. Before she could run away from the berating she expected for having challenged him once more—he, to her shock, let out a slight _'ha!',_ and without turning around, apparated without another word. 

Hermione let out the breath she’d been holding in since the beginning of their tete-a-tete.

_Well, so much for a peaceful afternoon._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus gets more information on the Dark Lord and informs his grandfather, while Lucretia Black makes her return to Grimmauld Place for the first time in twelve years to find much has changed about both the house and its inhabitants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while. But, this one's pretty long so I hope I've made it up to you all.

Walburga was sat at her vanity, brushing her hair for the night when she let out a frustrated sigh, throwing her hairbrush down and watching as it clattered onto the surface. 

Sirius Orion had ended their third course of dinner with yet another one of his drunken diatribes against her and their family, utterly spoiling the surprise she’d spent the afternoon tensely advising Kreacher on making for him. 

Chocolate marzipan truffles—his _favorite_. 

Yet he’d downed an entire bottle of pinot noir instead, spewing more nonsense about how she was ‘imprisoning’ him and ‘depriving him of his freedom’. 

Idiot boy—hadn’t he learned already that fanciful notions of freedom and independence were what got him into this mess in the first place? 

Walburga ran a hand over her face in exasperation, then promptly shook off her emotions and continued getting ready for bed. It wouldn’t do to meet Sirius for their certain morning rematch less than well-rested.

As she brushed her hair, she could only think—with a pang of sadness—how much she wished Orion were still here. Her husband would’ve been able to bring him in line, she was sure of that much, boys were meant to be guided by their fathers through these things. 

Though it wasn’t just that.

The fact was, Walburga was never meant to be alone. Especially through this. 

She missed being able to depend on someone—missed Orion’s quiet yet steadfast loyalty, his comforting presence, the way he would pass by her vanity as she got ready for bed each and every night and his eyes would meet hers in the mirror for just a moment, and at that moment there would be a spark of something unspoken yet tender that would pass between them. 

Even now, almost twenty years since he’d gone, she’d still look in that mirror desperately hoping that by some miracle he’d be standing next to her again. 

If only. 

With a shake of her head, she pushed all maudlin thoughts of Orion out of her mind and reached for the sterling silver pillbox on her right-hand side. She may have skipped out on her therapy sessions for the past few weeks—who could blame her really? She needed to dedicate all her time to get the boys in line—but that didn’t mean she needed to entirely neglect Kreizler’s regimen. Loathe as she was to admit it, it had done her well, and her state was much improved. She opened the box, picking out one of those odd dual-colored capsules and holding it against the lamp, squinting as she read the tiny black text on it. 

_“Prozac,”_ she read aloud, and then promptly scrunched up her face in confusion. She had no idea what the blazes that was, perhaps some odd magical root found only in Germany or something of the sort—Nevertheless, she shrugged, popping it into her mouth and washing it down with a sip of water. 

She continued brushing her hair, the silence comforting, until she heard a loud rustling behind her, and spun around, wand in hand ready to meet the threat. 

The logs in the fireplace shifted, and she knew at that moment it was someone trying to access her rooms through the floo—but who? Excepting those who were in this house, no one else (that she knew of) knew that she was at Grimmauld Place. Her mind shifted to the possibility of Bellatrix, and Walburga tightened the grip on her wand. If that traitorous bitch thought to come anywhere near her children, she’d cut her open like a pig and send her back to her master one finger at a time. But as the head came into view in the fireplace, she realized with a jolt it wasn’t Bellatrix. 

It was someone far worse. 

“WALBURGA DESDEMONA BLACK!” Her mother yelled, her wrinkled face pinched in fury. 

“Mother?” Walburga breathed, dropping her wand, lamely. 

“YOU ARE IN A WORLD OF TROUBLE, GIRL!” 

“H-how did you know I was here?” No one should’ve known, unless—she shuddered to think of it—a spy in Dumbledore’s ranks. She knew they shouldn’t have trusted that old rake!

“I wrote to Arcturus after all of my owls to Neptune House went unanswered! He told me that you were here, for God only knows what reason!” 

Not for the first time, she swore that she’d kill the man the next time she saw him. 

“Mother, I—“ 

“Don’t you ‘ _mother_ ’ me!” Irma Black cut in, a look of warning in her eyes that made Walburga swallow all her words. “You have been ignoring Healer Kreizler for the last month, not answering his calls, not attending his sessions, and now I find out that you’re staying in the ruins of your former home? I’ve half a mind to send you back to the Asylum!” 

“No!” Walburga replied, harshly—too harshly, if the murderous look on her mother’s face was any indication. She softened her voice, “I mean— _Please_ , mother, that won’t be necessary. I’ve just been…preoccupied is all. I’ll go to the next session, I swear it!” 

“Oh no, no, no,” Her mother tutted. “I don’t trust you to do that. If you insist on staying in Grimmauld Place, then Kreizler will come to _you_. He’ll be there tomorrow at noon, and I will not hear a word against it unless you’d like me to drag you back to Germany myself!” 

“Wait, he can’t!” Walburga pleaded, desperately. “Tell him to meet me at Neptune House, instead. I only meant to stay here for a few days to…make peace with my past,” she finished, lamely, hoping to God her mother believed that drivel. “I’ll meet him at Neptune House tomorrow at noon, I swear to you!” 

Irma Black narrowed her eyes at her daughter so intensely one would think she had closed them completely, but after a few moments, relented. “Very well, but if I hear one word of you skipping out on your sessions again—“ 

“You won’t,” Walburga promised, putting her hands up, placatingly. 

Her mother gave a loud harrumph, but she nodded her head all the same. “Good. Oh,” Irma’s voice turned from forceful to saccharine almost immediately. “And do write your poor mother more often dear, I shudder to think of you all alone back there.” 

“Of course,” She nodded, fervently. “I’ll write to you twice a week, at least.” 

The older woman narrowed her eyes slightly and Walburga quickly corrected herself, “I mean—four times a week!” 

She nodded, then with a few parting words— _Eat, for God’s sakes, girl, you look far too thin these days_ —the floo call ended, and the fireplace went back to the way it had been two minutes prior. 

Walburga slept fitfully that night, waking every hour to see if her mother hadn't come back to drag her to Bavaria.

* * *

With a frustrated sigh, Regulus roughly closed the book in front of him, digging his hands through his hair. 

Another dead end. 

He’d read Secrets of the Darkest Art. Then reread it. Then reread it again. And on and on and on and on. Then he’d done the same with every other book containing even a mention of Horcruxes in Grimmauld Place’s library. Over and over and over. 

Absolutely nothing new.

Regulus slapped the surface of the desk in frustration. 

The material he was working with was dated. He had all the resources needed to go after the locket—the issue was he didn’t need to go after the damned locket anymore. 

How many were there? 

What were they? 

_Where_ were they? 

He hadn’t the faintest clue. 

Either way, he needed to work with what he had. Perhaps there was something he had missed in the library—though he doubted it—a book on how to locate Horcruxes, perhaps? A reference to said book?

Regulus knew his quest would most likely prove fruitless, but as of right now, this was what he had.

With a sigh, he stood up and made his way to the landing, pausing to give Sirius’s closed bedroom door a scowl. It seemed that his brother’s return to the family home heralded the return of his obnoxious habit of blaring that vulgar music of his. It would’ve appeared that the records Sirius gifted to him were the only decent ones in his collection. 

Shaking his head, he continued on down the stairs, ignoring the curious stares he elicited from the new occupants of the house and quickly moving past them so as not to get caught up in any sort of conversation. He’d run into the Weasley matriarch the other day, and after a two-minute interrogation on how much he ate— _Great Merlin, you’re thin, dear! What is that mother of yours feeding you?_ —he was quite content to avoid any such interactions for the remainder of their stay.

When he finally reached the library’s second-floor entrance, he entered without hesitation and began scanning the various volumes. Whilst he was thumbing through a treatise on various dark artifacts for any hint of Horcruxes, he took note of voices below. Closing the book silently, he moved to the railing overlooking the main floor of the library to see two girls in the sitting area: the redheaded one he recognized as the Weasley’s youngest, and the bushy-haired one he knew was Hermione—the girl that, according to a disbelieving and slightly drunk Sirius at the dinner table, grandfather had taken a liking to enough to have a civil conversation on blood and _lend her a book_. 

Regulus was about to continue in his own task when his ears perked up at the mention of the Dark Lord, and he sidled over as subtly as he could to try and parse out what they were saying. His father had always told him not to listen at keyholes, but he justified himself with the fact that there were _technically_ no keyholes here, and he was getting desperate. 

“I just can’t deal with all of this,” the Weasley girl said. “I’ve barely been getting any bloody sleep, especially in this creepy old rowhouse.” 

Pushing down his offense at his ancestral home being referred to in such a degrading manner, he continued listening. 

“Ginny, I know this place is unsettling, but we’re as safe as we can be here.”

“I know,” She sighed, tiredly. “I just—I’ve been having dreams.” She lowered her voice, slightly. “He’s there, and all of a sudden I’m back in the chamber, feeling the life drain out of me, knowing there’s _nothing_ I can do to stop it. Knowing that I _helped_ him.” 

_Chamber?_ Regulus wondered, _What chamber? Did the Dark Lord do something to this girl?_

“He won’t hurt you anymore,” Hermione tried to console her, though the other girl shook her head violently. 

“You don’t know that,” She spat. “You don’t know what he’s capable of, not truly. Tom— _Voldemort_ ,” She corrected herself, and Regulus felt himself flinch at the mention of the name. “You don’t understand,” she finally sighed. “None of you do, except for Harry.” 

Hermione warily put a hand over the Weasley girl’s, and he could see the younger girl relax at her touch. “I wasn’t there with you in the chamber, but I almost died because of him too, Ginny. You and Harry aren’t the only ones who’ve suffered.” 

The Weasley girl cursed herself, and Regulus felt himself blush at the colorful language. He still had trouble saying the word ‘damn’, what business did a fourteen-year-old girl have speaking like that? “I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to—“ 

“It’s alright,” she reassured her. “Just—put Tom Riddle out of your mind. The more you think of him, the more power you give him over you. We’re safe here, for now.” 

“And how long will that be?” The Weasley girl asked, darkly, though she shook her head and ran a hand over her face. “You’re right, I know you are, it’s just…difficult is all.” 

Regulus didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, as he slipped out of the library with his ears ringing. _Tom Riddle._ Who was he? Was he a death eater, an apprentice of the dark lord? He’d never heard the name during his time in the Dark Lord’s ranks, but then again, all the meetings he’d attended, everyone had been masked, and no names were used. There wouldn’t have been any way to tell. 

Either way, he could see it was important. _And what was this whole chamber business?_ The only chamber he could think of was the chamber of secrets, the legendary chamber that Salazar Slytherin himself had built in Hogwarts, but everyone knew that that was just an old wive’s tale—

Regulus felt his blood run cold as the pieces finally began to align. 

Salazar Slytherin. Slytherin’s locket. The Chamber of Secrets. 

The Dark Lord had been a descendant of Slytherin, had he not? The locket, it was a family heirloom, passed down through centuries. He could feel Slytherin’s magical signature—and that would’ve explained the connection to the snake, the parseltongue, all of it. 

The tale of the chamber of secrets came to the forefront of his mind as well. Bellatrix had told it to him as a sort of bedtime story one night when mother had been too busy dealing with an unruly Sirius to put him to bed and had hastily ordered his eldest cousin to do so. He remembered Bella rolling her eyes with a haughty annoyance when he—being five years old—had asked for a bedtime story. Then, an idea popped into her head, her eyes shone with malice, and she’d parted her lips in a thin, feral smile. 

Bella told him everything then. How Slytherin had left the school over disagreements with its other founders, how before he’d left he’d built a chamber deep within the bowels of Hogwarts, a dark, cavernous place, that could only be opened by the true heir of Slytherin. When he’d asked her what was in the chamber that it needed to be opened in the first place, her grin had widened, and she leaned in closer to him, whispering against his ear: 

“A monster. A horrifying, terrible, wonderful beast, meant to be unleashed on all those unworthy of attending Hogwarts. Meant to cleanse the school of the mudbloods and all the other filth.” 

Regulus had nightmares for a month after that. 

But this, all of this—it was beginning to fit together. The question was: Where did Tom Riddle fit into it all? 

He went over what he’d heard once more, and he stopped at one particular point. 

She’d corrected herself. 

When referring to Tom, she’d stopped, in the same way Sirius did whenever he impertinently referred to Arcturus by his first name then quickly reverted to ‘Grandfather’ at his glare. She stopped and corrected herself, saying the Dark Lord. 

Regulus’s eyes widened, and he felt his jaw go slack. 

Tom Riddle, that was the Dark Lord’s name. Of course, Regulus knew deep down that the man had to have a true name—no self-respecting mother would name her progeny Lord Voldemort—but it was truly unsettling how _normal_ of a name it was. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t recognize the surname at all, which boded ill for any chances of the dark lord being a pureblood, as father had instilled into him the knowledge of every pureblood family—minor or major—from here to India, and Riddle was not among them. 

The Dark Lord, a half-blood. Regulus felt himself become angry at the idea of it—had he, had hundreds of others, truly risked their lives and families in the name of blood purity only to be deceived by some upjumped half-blood? Of course, he no longer supported the Dark Lord’s message—though he would be lying if he said he was completely rid of his prejudices—but the notion that all of this, all he’d seen, all he’d been through, was built on a lie infuriated him beyond words. 

With fresh determination coursing through his veins, he marched back up to his rooms, but before he went back into his research, he decided to seek out Sirius to see if his brother knew any more about this. 

The sounds of muffled rock music could be heard through his front door, and Regulus suppressed his annoyance at the noise, deciding that a lecture on lowering the volume could come later. He knocked on the door, lightly, and was greeted with a loud _“Piss Off!”_

“It’s me,” Regulus said through the door, and after a few moments of hesitation, he heard a loud _‘Come in!_ ’, and opened it. 

Sirius was sat on his bed, bobbing his head to the music playing, and Regulus almost laughed at how much Sirius had reverted to his old ways. He remembered hearing this infernal record the summer Sirius had come back from his first year at Hogwarts, and though that didn’t bring back too many good memories, Sirius going back to his twelve-year-old self was amusing enough to block those out. 

_Not that he ever left his twelve-year-old self_ , Regulus thought, smiling to himself.

“Can you turn that off for a second? I need to speak with you.” Regulus spoke over the chorus of some song about some man claiming he was a ‘jeepster’ for a woman’s love, whatever the blazes that meant. 

Sirius groaned in annoyance, but complied, standing up and lifting the needle. “Reg,” he said, his voice exasperated. “Please, when you need to speak with me in future, try not to do it when I’m in the middle of a guitar solo.” 

“You’re always in the middle of a bloody guitar solo,” Regulus said, in a voice that was far too sulky for his liking. 

“Oi, I need to cleanse myself after that depressing folk music marathon you put me through these past few days, or have you forgotten we share a wall?” 

Regulus felt his cheeks color in embarrassment, then for whatever reason replied childishly: “Well—that music was actually good! If anything you should be grateful!” 

Sirius narrowed his eyes, looking ready to put Regulus into a headlock and do that awful thing where he rubbed his knuckles into his scalp. “Are you claiming T. Rex isn’t good? God, I should—“ 

“—Oh, for God’s sake, Sirius!” Regulus said, finally remembering his age. “Look at us! We’re in our thirties—are we really about to have a fight because of who can hear who’s music through the wall?” 

Sirius blinked, almost seeming as if he were escaping a trance, then cursed loudly. “Damn it! It’s this fucking place, Reg—I swear I’m going insane. The dinners, the endless hours cooped up in this room—Merlin, the woman has even taken to picking out my clothes! I haven’t worn these robes in— _God_ , I don’t even remember!” 

“Yes, this place,” Regulus said, though he silently doubted Sirius’s immaturity was caused chiefly by being in Grimmauld Place. 

Sirius shook his head. “Anyway, what the hell do you want?” 

Steeling himself, Regulus took a deep breath. “What do you know of Tom Riddle?” 

Sirius’s eyes widened, then promptly narrowed into suspicion. “How do you know that name?” 

_So he knows._

“I overheard the Weasley girl saying something about him in the library,” Regulus replied, deciding to leave out the fact that he’d purposefully eavesdropped. 

Sirius sighed, slightly deflating. “It’s Voldemort—at least according to Harry. I don’t know much, but the general gist of it was he had some diary that contained a piece of himself, then the Weasley girl—Jenny, Janie? I can’t remember—was possessed by it somehow. Malfoy had something to do with it, I think he gave her the book on purpose. All in all, the chamber of secrets was opened, she almost died, a basilisk was released then killed by harry with a sword, and he stabbed the book with its fang.” 

Regulus felt his jaw go slack, trying to take in all the information at once. _I used basilisk venom to destroy the necklace_. His diary was clearly a horcrux—though he didn’t think many people realized—but Potter destroyed it. 

“Wait,” Regulus said, not quite able to believe one piece of the information. “Did you say Harry Potter killed a basilisk? With a _sword_?” 

Sirius’s chest puffed up a bit, clearly proud. “Yeah, shoved it straight into its mouth.” 

Regulus scoffed, still in shock. “Merlin, a basilisk goes loose in Hogwarts, and then on top of it all this entire Triwizard tournament debacle happens. What the hell has happened to that school?” 

Sirius snorted. “Oh, that’s not even the half of it.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“In Harry’s first year, one of the teachers was possessed by Voldemort—had him growing out the back of his head, and was trying to steal something called the philosopher’s stone in order to achieve immortality. Then, on top of the whole _Triwizard tournament debacle_ ,” he said the last three words with a slightly mocking tone, much to Regulus’s annoyance, “A death eater in disguise as Mad-Eye was the defense against the dark arts teacher. He even taught them the bloody unforgivables.”

Now Regulus knew he was gaping. “What?! Who? How?” 

“Barty Crouch’s son. Turns out our old friend Barty lied to everyone and snuck his son out of Azkaban. Had him under the imperius locked in his house for years.” 

“Good Lord,” He breathed. He’d known Barty Crouch Jr—not well, the boy had been two years younger than him and didn’t run in the same circles as Regulus—and though they hadn’t been exactly friends, on top of the fact that his torture of the Longbottoms had erased any good thoughts Regulus had of him, Regulus didn’t think he would wish constantly being under the imperius on _anyone_. It was a horrid spell, he had trouble using it on the _mice_ Bella had him practicing with, he couldn’t imagine ever using it on a person, much less his own son. He was quite shocked at Barty Sr’s role in this entire scheme—no doubt grandfather would be as well, the two men had known each other for quite some time. 

Not for the first time, Regulus thought Sirius was being a tad dramatic over grandfather and mother’s demands. His situation wasn’t ideal, but if what Sirius had just told him was true, it could always be worse. Far, _far_ worse. 

“Good lord, indeed,” Sirius echoed, crossing his arms and leaning back onto his bed. “It’s a right mess we’re all in, Reg. A right fucking mess.” 

Regulus could do nothing but nod in silence, wholeheartedly agreeing with his brother’s assessment of the situation. Still, he knew he had to go back to his room and continue his research, especially with all this new information he’d just gained, but before he could even entertain the idea, they both heard a loud _CRACK_ , and when he turned around, he saw Kreacher—thankfully the poor thing had mostly healed from his self-inflicted punishment, the bandages only limited to his hands now—standing in the doorway. 

“Mistress has bid Kreacher to come up to fetch the two young masters for tea time—Mistress Lucretia and Master Arcturus have arrived.” 

* * *

It was a complete and utter ruin. 

Those were Lucretia’s first thoughts as she stepped into Grimmauld Place with her father beside her. 

The wallpaper was peeling, some of the wood looked to be rotting slightly, the floorboards creaked with each and every step she took. The banister that she’d constantly slid down as a girl—much to her father’s amusement and her mother’s exasperation—looked a splintered wreck. The only thing that remained the same were the portraits. 

Lucretia felt a strange sense of loss staring at her childhood home in such a state—the last time she’d been here was ten years ago when Walburga had just returned from her stay at that German asylum. It had been in a bit of a state of disrepair, true, but nothing compared to _this_. How could Papa have let this happen? 

She felt a light tug on her shoulder and turned to see her father’s frowning face. He was looking down at her, almost in concern, and she realized she must have been frozen to the spot for some time. With a shake of her head, she continued walking. Circling the foyer, her hands idly brushed over the loose wallpaper, the action eliciting a slight crinkling sound that caused her to grimace. 

This was what was left of their family. 

Lucretia had never been one for Papa’s talks of legacy and duty—and over the years she’d grown to resent those words, and the man himself, more and more—but no matter how hard she tried to resist, some of what he’d said _had_ rubbed off on her. She was loyal to her family, to their legacy, their history, no matter how flippantly she pretended to treat those topics. To see what was once a symbol of their power and pride reduced to _this…_

She found she couldn’t bear it. 

Moving to the stairs, she noticed the sounds of footsteps coming from somewhere upstairs—what sounded like two or three sets of them—and with a clench in her chest, she realized that she recognized one: as boorish and heavy-footed as he had been when he was five and Walburga would force him to come down and greet whatever guests she had.

Sirius. 

Looking up at the landing, she saw two faces, only one truly familiar: Sirius, looking a bit more full in the cheeks than the last time she’d seen him behind bars in Azkaban. Then, when she looked upon the second one, she gasped—she could’ve _sworn_ it was Alphard come back to life, but she knew better. It was Regulus—but taller, slightly broader in the shoulders, longer hair, and black stubble lining his face. There was also something remarkably different about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Lucretia didn’t know which one she wanted to hit first. 

Almost instinctually, she went to Regulus’s side first. The boy—no, _man_ now—was staring at her with what looked to be unshed tears in his eyes. She almost felt sympathy for him, poor dear, separated from his family so long. 

Almost. 

Then, she remembered Walburga—screaming like a wounded animal when she woke to see the date of his death on the tapestry, fainting at his funeral, seizing violently on her bed and foaming at the mouth as a group of healers held her down and shoved a stick in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue. She remembered, and for the briefest of moments, she found herself hating her nephew with a passion. 

Lucretia didn’t notice clenching her fist, nor did she notice throwing it back, nor the crunching sound it made against Regulus’s nose. She only realized what she’d done when her father grabbed onto her arms and stilled her while Sirius went to his brother’s side on the floor. 

“Arghh!” Regulus moaned, his voice muffled by his hand, blood pouring out of his nose. “What the devil was that for?! I think you broke my nose!” 

Papa looked at her with shock, then turned to Regulus on the floor, giving him a quick once-over. “Oh, don’t be dramatic, boy—she didn’t,” He paused, inspecting him more closely. “Hm, it would appear she did. Get him off the floor, Sirius.” 

Lucretia winced slightly at the sight of Regulus now that she looked at him fully—his nose was already swollen something fierce, and he sported a cut across the bridge of it. Not to mention blood kept pouring out of it like water. 

Papa took out his wand, and with one quiet swish, she heard a ‘ _crack_ ’ that made her and Sirius cringe, made Regulus yell, and even made papa wince a bit. 

Her father looked back at her, anger plain in his eyes but she thought she saw a hint of grudging respect as well. “You pack quite the punch—it’s a wonder he didn’t go out cold.” 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” She apologized, quietly. Turning to Regulus, she added: “I’m sorry for striking you, Regulus. It was all rather impulsive on my part, I didn’t _plan_ to come here and break your nose—but if you’d seen what I had to watch your mother go through, I’m sure you’d understand why.”

Regulus winced, though it wasn’t out of pain this time. “I’m sorry, Aunt Lucretia. I,” He shook his head, miserably, “There’s so much I wish I could say. But…that’ll have to do for now. I just hope you know that I never meant for any of this to happen.” 

She was about to question him further when a hard look from her father made her bite her tongue. Papa, she supposed, knew more than she did—He had to, he wouldn’t have allowed the boy to draw breath otherwise. Regulus had never been a rash child, nor inconsiderate, so she supposed he had his reasons for leaving, whatever they were. Still, that didn’t erase what he’d put Burgie through. What he’d put _Lucretia_ through as well. 

“Bloody hell, Lucretia,” Sirius said, staring at her with a strange mixture of awe and fear. “Where’d you learn to punch like that?” 

Three sets of eyes turned to her, and she found herself remembering a thirteen-year-old Burgie holding down that horrid Travers girl who’d called her ugly—and said whoever married her would have to put a bag over her head in order to tolerate her presence—encouraging her to make the girl as ugly as she thought Lucretia to be. 

_Ah, memories._

Lucretia smirked, waving away the question as if it were a fly. “Oh, nowhere in particular.” 

Remembering why she was angry at Sirius, she straightened her face. “I trust Papa has already punished you for _your_ foolishness as well?"

Sirius scowled. “He backhanded me then locked me up in here.” 

A thin smile formed on Lucretia’s lips. “Good. Well then, shall we?” She said, pointing to the drawing-room. “Or do you lot want to stand here all day swallowing dust?”

They all nodded and followed behind her as she led the way to the drawing-room. Opening the double doors—which were, unsurprisingly, in a sorry state—she glanced upon the room and took in its state with a hint of surprise. The room itself looked almost as good as it had before Orion had died. Clearly, they’d begun the process of cleaning house—the furniture looked immaculate once more, the piano didn’t look like it was about to fall apart, there were no layers of dust and spiderwebs caked over everything, the tapestry looked immaculate as ever. Of course, it wasn’t completely back to what it had once been, the wallpaper had yet to be fixed, and there were still water stains on the built-in bookshelves at the back of the room, but she was pleasantly surprised with its condition. 

“Who cleaned this? Kreacher?” Lucretia asked, looking back at her nephews. 

They shook their head. “The Weasleys,” they chorused, and Lucretia nodded in understanding. She’d thought Molly having so many children to be unseemly, especially considering her husband’s family’s vault wasn’t exactly known for its fullness, but it appeared her overly active womb had paid off. Lucretia was so grateful she swore that she would commit herself to remember all of the names of the children. The only ones she knew—and really, were worth paying any mind to—were Charlie, Fred, George, and Bill. What were the others…Raymond? Jennifer? Dominic? _Ah_ , she could learn later.

Going for her chair—the leather loveseat by the fireplace where she and ‘Rion used to fall asleep while trying to catch Father Christmas in the act—she sat down, primly smoothing over her skirts. 

The boys and her father followed suit, father choosing the wingback chair, Sirius and Regulus taking the chaise, and the velvet armchair known to be preferred by Walburga left empty while she finished doing whatever it was she was doing. 

“Where _is_ your mother, boys?” She asked her nephews, beginning to dig through her purse for a cigarette. 

Sirius responded, the shrug audible in his voice. “She said she had some business at Neptune House she needed to take care of.” 

Lucretia stopped, furrowing her brow. _Neptune House_? What could Burgie possibly have there that was more important than this? As far as she knew, none of their relatives were in town—not that Walburga was exactly a renowned hostess when they were—so she couldn’t have been taking tea with anyone. Shrugging, she resolved to ask her cousin as soon as she got back. 

Lucretia continued digging through her purse until she finally found the cigarette case, pulling one out, and offering one to Sirius—poor boy looked like he wanted to pluck the case right out of her fingers and drown himself in nicotine. 

Lighting her own, she looked up to see her father’s face set in a disapproving frown. 

“You know I don’t like that, Lucretia,” he said, warningly. 

“Really?” She replied, inhaling strongly. “That’s too bad, papa.”

To her annoyance, Papa leaned forward, plucking the cigarette out of its place in the holder and putting it out on the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. He also took Sirius’s as well, though the boy put up some resistance before reluctantly letting go at her father’s hard glare. 

The silence that settled over them was tense—She was seventy years old, yet her father still _insisted_ on treating her like a child. It infuriated her to no end and reminded her why she’d ceased talking to him in the first place. It had always been Papa’s way or nothing, and though she might have suppressed her feelings on that once, after Orion’s death, she was done putting up with it. Lucretia barely had the strength to get out of bed after her baby brother met his end, there was simply no possible way she could have kept on letting her father’s frostiness hurt her without losing her sanity like Walburga. 

But now, here she was. Regulus and Sirius’s return to the old homestead had brought her and her father together, and if it meant seeing her nephews, she supposed she could stomach his coldness for an hour or two. 

She just wished it didn’t hurt so much. 

“Regulus,” Lucretia spoke, desperate for a distraction from thoughts of her father. “Your mother tells me you were in Italy during your…vacation.” 

Her nephew, his nose still paining him—not that Lucretia truly regretted the punch—answered warily: “Yes.” 

“Where in Italy, if I may ask?” 

“Appia,” replied Regulus, and the name made her perk up in her seat. 

“Appia? Oh, I know Appia! I hear it’s lovely there.” 

Regulus blinked. “You do?”

“Of course, or did you think you picked some village no one has ever heard of?” By the blush on his face, he did think so—silly boy. In his defense though, Italy definitely wasn’t nearly as frequented by English wizards as Germany or France, where he would’ve surely been found out eventually. 

“You know,” she continued, “One of my old companions from school—Eugenie, Euphemia, _God_ I can never remember her name—anyhow, she’s a Rowle. She has a niece that just went there for some apprenticeship.” 

Regulus nodded, still clearly embarrassed by his mistaken assessment of his hideaway. “She’ll like it there, I’m sure. It’s lovely this time of year,” he said, slightly longing. 

Lucretia narrowed her eyes at the boy, deciding that, _yes_ , there was _definitely_ something different about him. But what was it? 

She didn’t get a chance to ask, as Walburga chose that moment to appear in a burst of green flames, stepping out of the fireplace and dusting off her frock coat. 

“Burgie!” Lucretia called out, smiling. “So kind of you to finally join us,” She almost laughed at the childish scowl on Walburga’s face at the jibe. “Please, we saved your seat.” 

Walburga took off the frock coat, tossing it on the floor as if expecting Kreacher to pop out of thin air and take it—which, to her surprise, the little mongrel did—then sat down. 

“Kreacher,” Walburga’s voice was cold. “Will you bring us some refreshments—Or are we meant to eat dust like insects?” 

The old thing’s eyes widened in fear. “Of course not, mistress, at once, mistress!” 

He disappeared with a loud crack, and Walburga turned her attention to her sons, gasping in shock at Regulus’s face. She practically flew out of her seat, darting to his place and kneeling beside him, running her fingers over his nose in inspection. 

“What happened?” She asked, and her voice was so low that Lucretia wished to disappear into the loveseat. 

“I—“ his eyes darted toward her, then to the floor. “I ran into a door.” 

“You ran into a door?” Walburga asked, slightly skeptical. “You’ve never been so clumsy.” 

“Ah, well,” Regulus chuckled, the sound strained. “First time for everything, I suppose.” 

“Hmph,” Walburga said, not quite believing it but clearly not suspecting her cousin to have been the culprit. “Did one of those little redheaded beasts strike you?” She lowered her voice, and Sirius looked like he desperately wanted to laugh at the idea of one of Molly’s brood breaking Regulus’s nose. “You can tell me, I won’t judge you. Weasleys are known to be savages and it wouldn’t surprise me if—“ 

“—No!” Regulus said, face red in embarrassment. “Really mother, it was _just a door_.”

Walburga narrowed her eyes at him, then with a sigh, promptly dropped the matter. “Very well. I’ll have Kreacher bring me my kit to see to your face. Though it looks as if your grandfather healed the fracture, thankfully.” 

Walburga stood up, bringing her chair closer to the chaise Regulus and Sirius sat on—much to the elder’s chagrin—clearly meaning to fix up the boy’s face while they spoke. 

Lucretia let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in, and at that moment Kreacher decided to pop up, carrying a tray of tea, cucumber sandwiches, scones, and biscuits. Once he lowered the tray onto the coffee table, Walburga ordered him to fetch her kit so she could see to the young master’s nose. 

“At once, mistress,” he said, disapparating. He appeared once more a few seconds later, meekly handed Burgie her kit, then left with some muttered oath about how he lives to serve. 

Walburga wasted no time in getting to work, pouring some liquid from a black vial onto a cotton wad and pressing it to the cut on Regulus’s nose. 

He winced, to which Burgie rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Regulus Arcturus,” She admonished, tutting maternally. “This is so you aren’t left with some ghastly scar from that nasty cut. Thankfully it won’t need any stitching.” 

Burgie continued her work silently, cleaning the blood off the boy’s face and making him drink some potion that made him grimace in distaste. Lucretia suspected all the work was meant for cosmetic purposes—the fracture had healed and the bleeding had stopped, but Walburga would certainly not risk one of her precious boys looking anything less than doll-like. 

Finally, she stopped, humming in satisfaction at her work, then promptly returning to her chair and reaching for a teacup. 

“So,” Walburga said, pouring herself some tea. “Boys, I trust you’ve greeted your aunt properly?” 

Watching Burgie still treating her sons as if they were ten was endlessly amusing to Lucretia, and she had to suppress a smile. “Yes, mother,” Regulus and Sirius chorused, fidgeting in their seats uncomfortably. 

_Merlin, it may as well be 1969 again. The only difference is that their hair is longer and they have beards._

“And you, Lucretia, how have you been?” Asked Burgie. 

“Oh, I’ve been well,” Lucretia said, and she started in surprise when father silently handed her a teacup, already prepared just the way she liked it. 

_He always made my tea for me_ , she thought, sadly. _No one else could ever get it right the way he did._

Shaking off the thought, she continued: “I was more concerned for you, Burgie. What was the business at Neptune House that was so urgent you arrived late?” 

A shadow passed over Walburga’s face, and that answered Lucretia’s question then and there. She only ever got like that after seeing that alienist her mother hired. The man was brilliant, though his perceptiveness really did border on intolerable. With Walburga being so stubborn and self-assured, it was no wonder she despaired at seeing him so often. 

“Nothing too pressing,” Walburga replied, bringing the teacup to her lips. “Just needed to see the state of it so I could know when to send Kreacher over to clean. I’ve left it empty for the past two weeks while I’ve been seeing to the boys, after all.”

“ _Naturally_ ,” Lucretia said, stretching out the word to let Burgie know she knew exactly why she’d gone, and if the glare her cousin sent her was any indication—she got the message. 

“And you, Arcturus?” Walburga asked, and if her voice was colder than usual, no one asked why.

“Well enough,” Papa replied, gruffly. 

“I’m glad to hear it. Have you reconsidered my proposal?”

“I have—it’s still no.” 

Burgie clenched her jaw in thinly veiled irritation but remained silent. Clearly, the ‘proposal’—whatever it was—was something not meant to be spoken of in front of the boys. Not that either of them seemed to mind—Sirius was glaring into his teacup, and Regulus was picking at the thread on his sleeves in much the same way ‘Rion used to do when he was nervous.

“Sirius,” Lucretia turned to her eldest nephew, eager to break whatever tension there was between her father and Burgie. “How have you been handling being back home?” 

“With a significant amount of pinot noir,” Sirius snarked, and both Walburga and Papa glared at him, though Papa’s seemed more charged. 

“Mind your tongue, boy,” Papa barked. 

“She asked, I answered,” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s bloody miserable here, I don’t see the use in pretending otherwise.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you’d be far happier out there, chasing skirts and getting into bar fights like some loutish muggle.” 

“Chasing skirts?” Lucretia repeated, a laugh bubbling up in her throat at the idea. “Oh, papa, you can’t seriously believe that? Sirius is as pure as the driven snow, it’s plain to see.” 

All eyes turned to Lucretia, Sirius’s looking slightly mortified. 

“What?” Papa asked, first genuinely surprised, then laughing once he saw the confirmation in Sirius’s face. “You mean to tell me that this rebel, this vulgarian, is as uncorrupted as an altar boy?” 

“Shut up!” Sirius said, fidgeting in his seat and not wanting to look anyone in the eye. 

“Why, of course, he is,” Walburga said, completely serious, not understanding why she and father were smiling. “I taught my boys better than to sully themselves with harlots. They’ll wait until they marry, as is only proper.” 

When Walburga said those words, combined with the subtle reddening of Regulus’s ears, she finally realized why the boy had felt so different to her. And when the realization came, Lucretia gasped. 

“Regulus Black! You complete and utter cad!” Lucretia exclaimed, genuinely shocked that her meek nephew would do such a thing. “I wouldn’t have expected it from either of you, but you least of all.” 

“What?” Walburga asked, puzzled. 

“It would appear your youngest boy takes after the men in your branch in more ways than looks, Burgie,” Lucretia sipped at her tea, then spoke again, in a smirking voice: “Your eldest may be as pure as the driven snow, but your youngest certainly isn’t.” 

Walburga scoffed, disbelievingly. “Regulus? Oh, please Lucretia, he—“ she stopped when she turned to face him, and once she too saw Regulus’s red face and wandering eyes, she stood up, abruptly. 

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” she hissed, dangerously, and the boy flinched. “Tell me your aunt is delusional.” 

Regulus looked as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the chaise, and looked too terrified to speak. “Mother,” he croaked out, anticipating her screams. “I—I don’t see why this is important.” 

“ _Humor me_ ,” she said, her voice more a growl than anything. 

“Reg?” Sirius asked, looking at his brother as if he’d grown three heads. “ _Really_?”

Regulus hesitated, then nodded slightly. 

The look on Walburga’s face was so volcanic in its fury even Lucretia recoiled. “ _Who_?” She asked, and the fact that she hadn’t yet screamed terrified everyone else even more. Well, except father, who was watching the scene unfolding before his eyes with a vague degree of amusement. 

“Mother, I—“ 

“WHO?!” Walburga screamed, causing Regulus to jump slightly in his chair. 

“Mother, you don’t know them—” 

“THEM?!” Walburga’s face turned red, and for a moment she looked like a very well-bred strawberry. “YOU MEAN THERE WERE MULTIPLE?” 

“ _Alright_ , Reg!” Sirius laughed, reaching out to pat his brother on the back, though Walburga slapped his hand away so roughly he yelped out in pain, shaking it vigorously. 

“Mother, please—“ 

“How many harlots corrupted you?!” Walburga yelled, grabbing his chin forcefully. “Tell me, Regulus!” 

"They weren’t harlots!” Regulus spoke up then, and Lucretia’s eyebrows raised in surprise at how ardent he looked in his defense of the girls. She supposed that he’d cared for them in some manner, and it was believable—after all, Regulus would not have been the type to hop from bed to bed like some Casanova. Clearly, he’d formed bonds with these girls. 

His mother, of course, didn’t see it that way. 

“Of course they were harlots! They seduced you—lured my poor, sweet boy into their beds to commit salacious acts of lust!” 

“They didn’t—“ 

“—Quiet!” Walburga silenced him, then she put her hands on his shoulders, her nails digging into them. “Who? How many?” 

Regulus gulped, scrunching up his face miserably. “ _Five_.” 

Walburga gasped, putting a hand to her mouth, then bared her teeth like one of Uncle Pollux’s Dobermans. “You will tell me their names.” 

“No! What are you going to do if I do?” 

“I’m going to wipe those strumpets off of the face of the earth!” 

“Then I’m definitely not telling you!” 

“Tell me their names, Regulus!” She shrieked, gripping his shoulder so hard Lucretia was sure it would leave a mark. “Tell me the names of those trollops right now!!!” 

“ _Enough_!” Papa’s commanding voice cracked through the air like a whip, causing them all to jump back.

Her father clucked his tongue and shook his head. “As entertaining as this display has been, it would appear that I must intervene before Regulus succumbs to your squawking and we hear news of an epidemic of missing Italian girls." He turned to Burgie, "Walburga, the boy was not defiled or corrupted—if anything this was your fault.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. 

"...What?" Walburga’s voice was dangerously low, causing even Lucretia, who had years of experience with her darkest moods, to sink back into her chair. 

Papa, on the other hand, looked merely bored, as if he were humoring an annoying child through a tantrum. "Well, clearly the boy was not raised right if he thought such behavior was appropriate. And after all," he took a slow sip of his tea, "It is in your branch's blood. Or are you forgetting your two womanizing brothers?" 

Before Burgie could retaliate—and judging from the caustic look she sent father she very much wanted to—he continued. 

"Either way, it's not the end of the damned world. I'd wager most pureblood men don't go their marriage beds completely inexperienced. Not all of us can follow the saintly example of your eldest," he finished off with a mocking smile directed at Sirius, who went beet red in embarrassment. 

Walburga looked as if she wanted to tear Papa’s head off, but instead, she let out what could only be described as a furious growl and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her with a swish of her wand. 

Lucretia shook her head, giving her father a slightly annoyed look at the way he handled the situation—which he pointedly ignored—then, with a huff, followed after her furious cousin to settle the woman down. 

Walking up the stairs, she paid no attention to all the portraits giving her surprised looks and whispering among themselves—except to give handsome old Ophiuchus a cheeky wink, to which he inclined his head—and kept moving. Burgie would surely be angry, but the years had taught Lucretia many things about dealing with her cousin, one doesn’t spend a childhood attached to the hip with someone else without learning a few things, after all. 

She reached the door of Walburga and Orion’s old rooms and knocked, softly. 

_“Go away!”_

“Burgie, dear, please let me in.” 

_“No!”_

She pinched the bridge of her nose to gather the last vestiges of her patience, before finally deciding that she wasn’t going to be spending the entire damn afternoon outside this door because of Walburga’s whims. Grabbing her wand from a pocket in her dress, she pointed it at the door and opened it with an easy flick.

Her cousin was not amused. 

“I told you not to come in!” Said Walburga, from beneath the covers.

Lucretia sighed—she had missed many things about her family over the years, but the Black penchant for overblown melancholia and theatrics was not one of them. 

“Walburga, is it truly such a great tragedy?” Lucretia asked, her hands on her hips. “Regulus is past thirty and unlike his brother, has not been locked in a cell for the whole of his twenties. It was bound to happen—though I will admit the thought of Regulus doing those things is…surprising, to say the least.” 

Truth be told, Lucretia had almost entertained the notion that Regulus had taken after his namesake in his…romantic preferences. The boy didn’t ever seem interested in girls—then again, he never really seemed interested in anything save stepping out of Sirius’s shadow. 

“It’s not proper!” Walburga moaned, more to herself than anything. She threw the covers back, her haughty face flushed with anger and a hint of sadness if Lucretia was reading her right. “He knows better! It had to have been those _women_ ,” she spat out the last word as if it were poison on her tongue, “Ruining my poor son, corrupting him with their lusty gazes and licentious ways. _Merlin_ , of course, he was, being in Italy of all places! Those Italians are as loose as a spendthrift’s purse when it comes to these things!” 

Lucretia barely bit back a snort as Walburga continued her tirade against Italy, then Italian women, then women in general, not pausing for even a second. 

“Burgie,” she said, once her cousin had finally finished catching her breath. Taking a chance, she moved closer to the bed, approaching her cousin as if she were a skittish colt. “Regulus, for all his sweetness, is a man—men do these things, it’s in their nature.” 

“Orion didn’t,” She replied, stubbornly. 

“Regulus is not Orion,” Lucretia said, voice serious. “You know that, don’t you? He has far too much of you in him.”

“Me?” Walburga asked, baffled. 

“Yes, you,” She repeated. “And not just in looks.” The years had only made Regulus’s resemblance to Walburga all the more unnerving—if they put the boy in a black dress, a wig, and had him scowl, Lucretia was sure she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “He clearly has your impulsiveness, judging by his less-than-graceful exit from the world of pureblood society.” 

Walburga’s face darkened at the reminder of her son’s betrayal. “I still don’t know what to make of that. Regulus was always so…so…” 

“…Well-trained?” Lucretia japed, and she almost laughed when Walburga nodded her head in agreement, clearly taking what she’d said seriously. 

“For all our similarities, according to you, I never even thought of disgracing myself in such a way,” Burgie told her, voice petulant. 

Lucretia smirked, cajolingly, taking a seat beside Walburga. “I seem to recall you sneaking out to the greenhouses with that Lestrange boy rather frequently when we were back at Hogwarts.” 

Her cousin scowled. “That was completely different, Lucretia Black! I knew it was shameful, and I never went anywhere near as far as he did!” 

“Of course not, dear,” Lucretia patted her on the shoulder, grateful that she didn’t flinch at the touch. “But that was rather different. Regulus was alone all those years, with no family at all. And for all his father’s temperant, Regulus is much like you in that he detests being alone. Even Sirius had Papa and I visit him every week. Is it any wonder that he may have sought out a connection with someone else that resulted in an entanglement…less than seemly?” She finished, lamely. 

Walburga looked as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “Perhaps,” she finally admitted. “But it was wrong. He should have known better, and resisted the advances of those trollops!” 

Lucretia found it entertaining how Walburga was still refusing to acknowledge that Regulus more than likely welcomed those advances, but if it made it easier for her to take the news that her precious boy was _‘sullied’_ , there was no harm in her believing it. 

“He should have,” Lucretia said instead, squeezing Burgie’s shoulder. 

“What happened to my boys, Lucretia?” 

Walburga’s tone was not angry, nor cold, but she sounded terribly tired, and Lucretia felt a pang of sympathy for her poor friend at that moment. 

“Oh, Burgie,” She tutted, brushing off some flyaways from Walburga’s forehead in a strangely maternal show of affection. “They grew up, dear.”

“But now they’re back,” she continued, “And they won’t be leaving you for a long while yet. In the meantime, you can put them back on the right path.” 

Though she still wasn’t happy, Walburga nodded begrudgingly all the same, a look of steely determination in her eyes. 

Lucretia almost felt sorry for the boys. 

Almost.

* * *

Regulus hated how Sirius and grandfather were looking at him. 

Sirius looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or gape, while Grandfather looked on in thinly-veiled amusement, though there was some disapproval in his gaze as well. 

“Alright, she’s gone,” Said Sirius, looking over his shoulder like a mischievous child staying up past their curfew. “Who were they?” 

Regulus groaned, putting his head in his hands. He faintly registered Grandfather standing up from his seat, and looked up. 

“If you intend to speak of your conquests, I’ll take that as a sign that it’s time for me to leave.”

He met grandfather’s flinty eyes, then remembered his previous task before Lucretia had broken his nose and declared him spoiled like some errant princess. “Grandfather,” Regulus said, entreatingly, and Arcturus waved him on impatiently. “The work that I told you about—I found something.” 

Grandfather raised a greying eyebrow at that and took a single step towards him. “What?”

Regulus’s eyes darted to Sirius, worried that his brother would realize anything about what he was doing and report back to Dumbledore. They may have been on the same side, but he didn’t trust Dumbledore, and wanted to know more about the horcruxes before he took him up on his offer to speak with him so he’d have more leverage. 

He was not planning on going to Azkaban, nor would he allow any of his relations to, save Bella—though he was under no illusions that she would be allowed anything less under whatever circumstance. Dumbledore’s influence may have dwindled in the wake of the ministry’s smear campaign, but he still held a decent amount of sway in the Wizengamot.

Grandfather seemed to follow the exact same line of thinking, as he turned to Sirius and said, brusquely: “Get out.” 

Sirius blinked, before chuckling slightly, more out of shock than anything. “What?”

“This doesn’t concern you, you insolent whelp,” The older man said, pointing his cane to the door as if to show Sirius to the door, “So get out.” 

“You can’t—“ 

“Do you I need to put you over my knee like an errant child?” Arcturus grit out, and Sirius blushed in mortification as well as fear, before grudgingly acquiescing and stomping out of the room, muttering under his breath all the while. 

“Now,” Arcturus said, once Sirius’s heavy footsteps had got fainter, “What information?”

“I don’t have much,” Regulus said, honestly, “Except for a name.” 

“Spit it out, boy,” His grandfather replied, gruffly. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Riddle,” Regulus said, the name still odd on his tongue, “Tom Riddle.” 

“Tom Riddle,” Arcturus repeated, narrowing his eyes, and then he surprised him by whispering: “I know that name.” 

Regulus blinked, bemused. “You do?”

Nodding, the older man continued. “I don’t know from where, but I do. I’ll ask around, I should find something. But I _know_ I’ve heard that name before.”

Regulus cleared his throat, before continuing. “There’s more—I think this Tom Riddle is The Dark Lord.” 

For the first time in Regulus’s life, he saw Arcturus’s expression turn dumbstruck, then his grandfather began muttering to himself, pacing around the room, the sound of his cane hitting the floor rough on his ears. 

“Riddle, Riddle—that makes no _sense_ ,” Arcturus replied, after a few minutes. “There’s no pureblood family by the name of Riddle, not in England, nor elsewhere.” 

“I know,” replied Regulus, softly. “I don’t think he’s a pureblood.” 

Arcturus turned around, pinning him with a glare that made Regulus recoil. “That’s not possible,” He said, more to himself than Regulus, “How can the Dark Lord be a half-blood?” 

Shrugging, Regulus grit out: “It would appear he’s lied to us for some time.” 

“What proof do you have of this?” Asked Arcturus, voice low. “Or is this just some half-baked theory you’ve cooked up in your head?” 

“The Weasley girl,” Regulus replied, finally standing up so he was at an eye-level with Grandfather. “I overheard her talking about her time in the Chamber of secrets, and she said his name—Riddle’s that is. But she corrected herself afterward, and said it was Voldemort.” 

He could see the realization dawning on Arcturus’s face. “I heard about that—Arthur Weasley’s girl being taken down into the chamber of secrets. Many whispered that it was the Dark Lord’s doing, or the Heir of Slytherin’s, depending on who you ask. I know Lucius was involved in some capacity.” 

“The Dark Lord _is_ the heir of Slytherin, grandfather—they’re one and the same. The locket that I told you about, the Horcrux, it was Slytherin’s. It had his mark.” 

“You can’t mean that the Dark Lord is—“

“—A direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin,” Regulus finished, nodding gravely. 

“There are no Riddles descended from Slytherin,” Arcturus barked back, though the anger wasn’t directed at Regulus, not truly. “The only family that can trace any descent from the Slytherins are…the Gaunts,” His grandfather’s eyes widened, and it looked as if all the pieces were clicking together in his head. “Of course—there was a Gaunt girl, I can’t remember who she was, but her name served as fodder for pureblood gossip circles around the time Lucretia was born, and I remember Lycoris didn’t shut up about it for weeks. She eloped with a muggle, some said they fell in love, others said that she put him under some sort of spell. I don’t know what it is that happened to her exactly, but she ended up dead.” 

“A muggle—that would explain the name,” Regulus said, taking a few steps to one of the windows, watching as the clouds settled over London. “The Gaunt girl runs off, gets herself pregnant, and dies birthing the child.” He furrowed his brows, confused. “But, witches rarely, if ever, die because of childbirth.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Arcturus muttered, darkly, though his gaze was far away. Whatever strange memory passed over his grandfather, he shook it off after a few seconds. “Nevertheless, that does fit. Tom Riddle, Slytherin, the Gaunts, it has to trace back to him.” He turned back to Regulus, “Was there anything else?”

Regulus nodded. “There was a diary involved in the chamber incident—it was one of his horcruxes. He was using it to hurt the Weasley girl somehow, and Potter destroyed it with a basilisk fang.” 

After Grandfather got over the shock of a twelve-year-old besting a giant snake—and said some choice words about how poorly Dumbledore was managing the school that such a scene should happen in the first place—he sighed, running a gnarled hand over his face. “Two horcruxes, then. There have to be more.” 

“Seven, most like—it’s a number with strong magical significance, and I cannot see the Dark Lord settling for less.” Regulus groaned, the thought of five more horcruxes out there to search for and destroy made him sick, but he knew that there was no other option but to search for them. 

Grandfather nodded. “I’ll look into my old correspondences—there’ll be a mention of the Gaunt girl’s name in there somewhere. As for Riddle, I’ll have to ask Burke. He usually keeps tabs on characters like that, if I’ve heard of Riddle, he’s most definitely heard of him as well.” He looked at Regulus, rather queerly, before nodding once more, but this time in something that distantly seemed like approval. “Good work, boy. I’ll keep you updated on the details.” 

With a loud crack, Arcturus disapparated, and left Regulus feeling as if the burden on his shoulders had grown thrice as heavy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, Hope you all enjoyed the beggining to this (frankly insane) story. Feedback is greatly appreciated!


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